The Stranger's Fire
by BloodRedDemon
Summary: Many years ago, one of the mysteries of magic sent Eragon to Westeros. Five years ago, he found a place in this strange world; with the Starks. But was it really magic? After all, The Stranger rules over the unknown, and a Dragon Rider may be exactly what the Seven Kingdoms need. How will Eragon Shadeslayer change the Game of Thrones?
1. Eragon in Winterfell

**Okay, I really shouldn't be writing this; I've already got three stories on the go on this site, and this'll only add to the workload, but I'm disappointed that there, as far as I can find, are no crossovers of the Inheritance Cycle and Game of Thrones, and so I've written the first two chapters of this story and will continue to do so. I hope you enjoy it, if you are reading this, though I don't know how much traffic it'll receive.**

**Any of you who are reading this because of my other stories, I would like to say a big thank you to! And also to those who stick with this story in the future!**

**Those of you who _are_ reading this, please do review, follow and favourite. If there's any interest in this story beyond my own, I'd very much like to know. That would also help convince me to update more frequently.**

**One more thing that I missed in retrospect, (and I'm updating this as of June 2015) it will take some tie to diverge from Canon. The reasons behind this are quite simple, in my mind, as I think that those crossovers in which the protagonist swoops in and saves the day, making the world a virtual-utopia because he's "just that awesome" rarely work. If I'm going to write this story, I won't just have Eragon save all of the Starks lives simply because I like the characters. That does not sound like a story worth reading to me, and I would no doubt end up growing bored of, and abandoning, it. There will be changes, of course, but those that are significant will take place once _Eragon_ knows what is happening, and reaches conclusions about who's claim to support. I know what happens later down the line, but Eragon does not. For him to dictate everything around him would be putting himself on the level of a god, and I have never seen that aspect of Eragon's personality. I ask that you stick with me, but this is a character-insert fic; I am writing The Stranger's Fire the way I believe they are best executed, and that does not consist of immense, immediate changes that make everything all hunky-dory and violate the nature of Martin's world. Unfortunately, that means it will take some time before I can justify killing those characters that I despise and, while I apologise if that disappoints some of you, I believe that that is the best decision for my story.**

**Once again, I hope you enjoy the story!**

**-()-()-()-**

Even now, the bite of the North's cold was shocking to Eragon. Nowhere in Alagaesia, other than at the incredible altitudes he had reached on the back of his partner, did it ever reach such frigid temperatures. Yet, for these people, it was ordinary. Everyday.

And this was a _summer_.

It went to show how tough these folk were, for sure. No more than a fraction of the humans from his land would have been able to last even a week in the North. Many would not be able to survive a day.

For the Dragon Rider, it was not the cold that was bothersome; his physiology, superior as it was, made it easy, when combined with the thick cloaks of the natives, to even be _comfortable_ in this environment. A strange fact, since the homes of elves, who's strength he had gained, were far from the same as this world; Eragon put this, like many things, down to the magic that flowed through him, and had, so many years ago, reshaped his being. No. For Eragon, the problem was that he was not _human_ any more. His appearance, conspicuous as it was, drew attention to Eragon from all he met.

Men would jeer; seeing the regal, almost feline structure of his face and assuming, rather logically from Eragon's point of view, that he was born and raised in the south. Southern Lords looked more effeminate, and soft, than any in the north and, covered as he was, Eragon could pass as one. Of course, in the event that someone looked to take advantage of this, and that happened often, and steal the gold he was certain to be carrying, the human-elf hybrid would quickly correct their assertion. He was careful to spare their lives, of course, but it was highly unlikely that any of the offending parties would forget the brown haired 'man's' movements as he moved, or would a better word be _danced_, faster than they could hope to, and had a blade; a _beautiful_ sapphire sword, resting against their throat.

Women were harder to discourage.

Eragon was, for lack of a better term, beautiful, much like Brisingr. Except for the fact that only the rare, skilled blacksmith could see that about his rider's sword, and most every woman he had met had noticed it about the man himself. Promiscuity, apparently, was far more common in this world than Alagaesia and, uncomfortably frequently, Eragon received offers for free-of-charge visits to brothels.

The matter at hand did not relate to this trouble, however.

The punishments in this land were harsh, and Eragon was currently watching the evidence of this. A pathetic figure, screaming and crying, was being manhandled towards a tree stump set up for a rather clear purpose. The reason it was so clear, was that a man; a burly man with a tired expression on his face, was stood next to it, hands resting on the pommel of a shining great-sword.

The hybrid elf knew that it was a mistake to get involved. This was none of his business, after all, and the man likely deserved such a punishment. He had seen, in the minds of many a man in this world, the different attitudes they held towards their fellows and, even more, the females around them. Eragon had long since come to terms with men who committed the crimes in this world being dealt with how their Lord saw fit.

Around here, Eragon knew that the most commonly executed criminals were deserters from the Night's Watch; and this criminal was wearing the black associated with them. Even with the Varden, back when they had shared a common enemy, a deserter would, more likely than not, be put to death. That was not even taking in to account the fact that the majority of these 'guards' were sent to the wall for previous crimes.

But, true to character, Eragon was compelled to _check_.

-()-()-()-

"I know I broke my oath, and I know I'm a deserter. I should've gone back to the wall." The man, who had so recently fled from danger, said to the Lord in front of him, head bowed ever so slightly. "I should've warned 'em, but... I saw what I saw. I saw the White-Walkers. If you could get word to my family... tell them I'm a coward. Tell them... tell them I'm sorry."

With a nod, Eddard stark gave the signal to his men, who grabbed the deserter by his shoulders and shoved him to his knees. The man did not resist. Theon Greyjoy, expressionless, offered the blade to his Lord, and Eddard sombrely drew Ice; the great blade that he used for each of these executions. As he began his sentencing, his voice low, his bastard child spoke to the youngest person present.

"Don't look away," Jon Snow instructed Bran, his younger half-brother. "He'll know if you do." Next to Bran's father, brown eyes locked on to his, and their owner nodded to him, emphasising what Jon had said.

"...I, Eddard, Lord of the House Stark, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die." With a single swing of Ice, Ned Stark beheaded the kneeling man, and so his sentence was fulfilled.

"You did well." Bran had only flinched as the man was put to death, and the wetness in his eyes was barely visible. The boy's true brother, Rob, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and the three began the short walk back to their horses. When they reached them, their father approached.

"Do you understand why I did it?" Ned asked Bran, knowing the sadness his youngest would feel after his first experience with death.

"Jon said he was a deserter." Bran replied.

"But do you understand why _I_ did it?"

"Our ways are the old ways,"

"And the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Ned enforced the importance of such a tradition in the North. Bran's response was a nod, and he prepared to climb on to his horse.

"D-Did he really see the White-walkers?" Bran asked, fearful.

"The White-walkers have been gone for thousands of years." Ned shook his head, reassuring his child.

"So he was lying?" Bran was disappointed by the idea of someone making up such a thing, and this was evident in his tone.

"Not necessarily," Eddard said in response. "A mad man sees what he sees. We cannot know what he encountered, but the White-walkers are gone, son." The large man walked away; heading for his own means of transport. As was often the case, he found it near his most trusted... friend; for the man was not his servant. He served only as long as he wished; neither needing the money or owing a debt to House Stark.

"He believed what he said, My Lord." Eddard nodded, as he met the brown eyes of Eragon; last member of the House of Rider; as he referred to himself in the presence of Lords.

"I know, Eragon. But the Walkers are long since gone. He must have been mad." The Rider nodded absently. Minds here were... different to those back in Alagaesia. Their natural defences were far more developed; likely because the magic of the land had had longer to infiltrate them, or that was what Eragon guessed. Of course, it was not enough to prevent one such as he from reading their thoughts when he put in the effort required, but the condition of the recently executed deserter's mind was similar to that of a madman, and so he was _forced_ to dismiss the threat

"I agree. It is a shame how few men there are to man the Wall." This would not be an issue were good men guarding the North.

"That it is."

-()-()-()-()-

"The Godswood..." Eragon murmured, as he reflected on the days events. That and how he came to be a part of the life of the Starks. He was well aware of the husband and wife in the forest; discussing something serious, by the emotions radiating from the pair, a few hundred yards away.

Lord Stark. He was an honourable man, and that was why Eragon had first joined him on the ride back to Winterfell. An honourable Lord, in this land, was a rare thing indeed. Even when faced with a cruel man; one who should have been imprisoned or killed in the first place, Eddard had been sorrowful in the act of taking a life. That had caught Eragon's attention, and so he had kept approaching the execution; the why of it, even now, being unclear to him. It had not been his intent to stay with the Stark household for as long as he had, nor had he planned to leave. There was no need to plan that far ahead. When the children had grown attached to him, and he in return began to care for them, Eragon was convinced to stay for the time being, and it had now been 5 years. He had developed a friendship with the Lord, and was almost friends with the Lady, as well.

Eragon had long since reached the conclusion he was stuck in this world.

Well, not exactly stuck, just... delayed. He was here for another two centuries at the least, as the conditions he had been experimenting with when sent to this land would not roll around for that much time. When that was over, he would return to Alagaesia. Or not. That would depend on the partner of his heart. He believed Saphira would survive; he could not think of anything else, but there was the chance that she would not. If that happened, he would not go back lest he raze the civilisations responsible. There had been an uprising when he had left; a charismatic human who convinced his followers that the realm would be best if he ruled. It should not have been difficult for the Riders to quell, but you never know.

Thankfully, Saphira would know that Eragon was still alive; just as he knew she persevered. Their bond was great enough that, no matter what, he could still feel her and she him. They could not communicate, not until the breach was open once again, but the other was always with them.

Of course, if Eragon found something here worth staying for, he would try to persuade his partner to join him. This would be perfectly possible; she would just have to come through. Like him, she would be thoroughly exhausted for a time, but that was the only price that they had to pay. This possibility was far more real given the events that took place a century prior to Eragon's arrival in Westeros; events that still hurt him so dearly.

He and Arya, lovers for time immemorial, or at least that was what it felt like, were as deeply in love as he had ever encountered, and Saphira and Firnen the same. Then the elves... no, not _the _elves. A single group; the first extremists Eragon had encountered of their kind, had decided that Arya should not be their leader any longer. Had believed that their relations with humans were unnatural; that they needed to remain separate. Dragon and Rider had been blind-sided by incredible mental control, and had died. The only comfort Eragon and Saphira were afforded was that it had been a quick death, and that the last words that had been exchanged were ones of love.

That and the merciless revenge Dragon and Rider took.

They had been forced to move forwards; as head of the new order, they had many responsibilities, and could not merely stop. Neither had truly moved _on,_ though; they would forever love their respective mate and, if the afterlife existed, Arya and Firnen awaited them. But they also knew that, if they existed in some form of paradise, the pair would want them to live their lives fully.

Eragon still held hope that he would find love again.

But back to more recent events.

The pups that Eddard found promised to be great protectors for his children, and Eragon was thrilled when Jon pointed out such a logical argument, in the minds of those present, as that there were five; one for each Stark child. It would be a real shame to see such innocent, marvellous creatures killed for no reason. Jon's pup, especially, promised to be interesting. There was something... different about its mind.

Sitting on the cool ground, Eragon set about one of his favourite pastimes in this world; meditating in this woods was remarkable. The trees were nearly as unique as the Menoa Tree; though far from sentient, and it was a wonder to observe them; even if he wished that he could encounter some of the more fascinating creatures he heard were beyond the wall.

It was not long after that he vaguely registered Lord and Lady Stark heading back towards their castle.

-()-()-()-()-

As he exited the castle a month later, yawning, Eragon witnessed a common sight around Winterfell; Bran Stark being berated for climbing by his mother, who was terrified that, one day, the boy would hurt himself.

It was very unlikely that she would be correct; the boy was an incredibly good climber.

"Eragon! Eragon! The king is near!" Bran did not give him a chance to respond, as he rushed past in search of his Lord father.

-()-()-()-

**Okay, one** **more thing I need to ask of you all. I very much like Eragon and Arya as a pair, as you hopefully deduced from what I wrote above, but I tend to prefer at least some romance, or more specifically a pairing, in Fanfictions _I_ read and write, so who would you pick to have Eragon paired with in the future?**


	2. The King's Arrival

**Since this is posted minutes after the first chapter, I don't have much else to say. I hope you enjoy, and Follow, Favourite and Review.**

**Plus, a reminder to vote for a pairing.**

**And that I'll post ancient language translations at the bottom of the page when they are needed.**

**-()-()-()-()-**

Along with countless others of anywhere near high standing from the local area, Eragon stood; awaiting the arrival of the king.

It showed the value Eddard saw in Eragon, and the friendship they shared, that he was stood behind the Lord and Lady of the house; with Jon immediately to his right. A few minutes after Eragon's heightened hearing caught the approaching company, Lady Stark voiced a concern.

"Where's Arya?" Catelyn asked her husband. Neither he, nor Sansa, knew where the younger female Stark was, and this raised concern with her mother and father; it would not do for one of their children to be missing when the King and Queen arrived. It was a shame that the boyish girl shared a name with Eragon's dead love, but it had not hurt since he had first been introduced, and that was only because of the shock.

It was fortunate, therefore, that the young girl arrived soon after, a helmet sitting on her head that was promptly removed by her father.

As the thundering of horses came closer, the crowd, almost as one, straightened up and waited to follow their Lord's lead. This lead came as the King's carriage; a huge thing built to be as comfortable as possible for the royal family. On the side, there was a the King's sigil; a stag, and there were many people following behind on horseback. One soldier, in particular, stood out to Eragon. A very large man, dressed wholly in black sat atop a horse large enough to support him. His size, however, is not what caught the magic-user's eye. The man's helm was in the shape of a dog's head, poised to bite. Why would the man choose that for a helm?

However, this question fell away from his mind as the carriage pulled up, and the horses were afforded time to rest; something they truly craved after pulling the cottage-sized structure for five days; having swapped been out halfway to Winterfell. Off a horse next to the carriage, stepped a man, that obviously had only been riding for the past mile or so, who could only be the king. He was... not what Eragon expected.

Tales were told and songs were sung even now of the glorious figure on the battlefield, in the fight against the Targaryen tyrants, and they spoke of a man as strong as an ox; swinging his war-hammer in mighty blows that felled an enemy with each strike. They gave the image of an infallible man who could, at a moments notice, take up the hammer one again, and this reassured those who supported Robert Baratheon and deterred those who would wish to overthrow the king. If they saw _this_ man, they might rethink that policy.

He was extremely fat. Fat enough that Eragon, who had met the Lords of Alagaesia who were so assured of their power that they could just sit around and be selfish, knew he was not a _good_ king. It made it all the more clear that Jon Arren, the previous Hand of the King, had ruled in his stead, and that Lord Stark was about to be asked to take the dead man's place. A good choice the king had made, too.

Eragon, along with Lord Stark and everyone else, dropped to one knee as the man approached the Lord. The man strode towards his old friend with confidence that came with power, and stopped a few feet away from Ned. Clearing his throat and motioning for his old friend to rise, Robert looked Eddard up and down.

"You got fat." He grunted at the Warden of the North. That was unexpected, and Eragon respected the fact that Eddard simply gave a nod to the King's own large belly in response. With a pair of booming laughs, the two embraced. "Ah! It's good to see you again! 9 years! Nine! Where've you been?!"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace." Ned returned, with a smirk. The King shook his head and moved on to the rest of the Stark family.

"Cat!" Robert exclaimed, embracing Lady Stark happily. Next to Catelyn was their youngest son; Rickon, who's hair the Baratheon King ruffled. Moving back along the line, he found the eldest child of Eddard, and stuck out his hand.

"You must be Rob." He remarked, as he nodded his approval of Ned's heir and shook hands. Next, he looked at Sansa. "My, you're a pretty one. And what's your name?" The latter directed at Sansa's younger sister.

"Arya." The girl responded. The man nodded, and moved on.

"Ah, show us your muscles!" The king said to Bran, who happily obliged.

"Ned!" The fat man exclaimed, as his wife, who admittedly lived up to what was said about her; that she was a beautiful woman, specifically, stepped out of the carriage and approached, giving Ned her hand to kiss. "Take me to your crypt, I want to show my respects!" He seemed to shout everything, Eragon noticed.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Cercei reminded him. "Surely the dead can wait." Her husband ignored her.

"Ned." Robert nodded, and walked away. With an apologetic look directed at the Queen, and a slight bow, Eddard followed after him.

As that space was vacated, Cercei's eyes fell upon a Lord she had not met before. One who had even more regal features than her family was famous for. Though there was something about him that made him... different. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he gave the impression that he would not be content with the gold her family had in abundance. Nor _anything_, for that matter.

Her gaze was torn away from the noble, angular face of the unnamed Lord as a curious voice rang through the silence.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked of her sister; inspiring Sansa's ire and a less-than-friendly look from the Queen.

Striding back to the carriage, Cersei addressed Arya's question to her twin brother, and sent Jaime Lannister him to find her whoring brother.

Eragon ran a hand over his freshly shaven face, and sighed as the two parties; one from the North, the other South, went in to the castle, to find the comfort and warmth it promised. The magic user, however, decided this was the best time to train; soon the yards would be overrun by Lannisters and other Southern Lords, wishing to show off their skills and not having a tourney available for this purpose.

-()-()-()-

Inside his room, later that day, Eragon murmured a word he had spoken so many times before. Several times tonight, in fact.

"_Hvass_," He ran his finger along the length of the knife in his hand, and it grew _sharp._ That was all of them. He had a dozen knives; not that they were needed, for the simple reason that he did not believe one could have too many weapons. You could _carry_ too many, of course, as any were cumbersome, but Eragon had been in the situation plenty of times before where he lost his primary weapon, and a second, or third, would come in handy.

Standing, he observed his reflection, in the mirror he had fashioned for himself; mainly for scrying, but not solely. During his time as a Rider, he was always active; training or fighting; healing or killing, it did not matter. Magic took its toll on him, as always, but Eragon was very glad that he had not fallen in to the trap of being too reliant on it. It was a wonderful advantage, and an important part of him, but nobody would let one arm grow too weak to punch while training the other extensively. Well, nobody intelligent.

This activity had always kept him in the lean shape he had had for so many years, and with an increase in strength, of course, came an increase in muscle. By the time he had finished growing; the time to his last growth spurt lengthened by his becoming a Rider, Eragon was an inch or two over 6 foot; a satisfying height, and had the broadness corresponding to this. This, altogether, gave him a warriors build, that would not betray the time he spent as a scholar, like all of his order. However, unlike the huge, brutish soldiers that existed in this world, his strength could be easily hidden with one of the heavy cloaks that he frequently wore for comfort in the cold North; aquired because of necessity, before one of his travels beyond the Wall. This, when combined with the regal build of his face and Aren, which still sat on his left hand, was the reason others so often assumed he was weak.

The bow that was ever present; one that he had sung from a tree himself as he had not been carrying his prised bow at the time he came to this world, was not all that helpful in discouraging the Lords and Knights; unless it was in battle, people looked down on archers. Not that Eragon was discouraged by this; not only was it something that reminded Eragon of his own world, but he had, before living in Winterfell, had to hunt or starve. There were very few plants, let alone edible ones, that grew this far North.

Slowly, and methodically, Eragon slipped two of his knives in to two sheaths; resting on the back of the Belt of Beloth the Wise, and buckled his Brightsteel blade on to his left hip, before adjusting his tunic and the coat resting over the top of it; a fine leather, as was the fashion in Westeros. Well, in the North.

He had been _asked_ to attend the blasted feast. The King would be there. He and everyone else supposedly worthy of the _honour_ of his Grace's time. Whether or not Eragon considered himself one of Robert's subjects, it wouldn't do to risk upsetting the king of these lands.

"Tss." The frustrated Rider strode to the door, and took a relaxing breath before heading down to the courtyard connecting his quarters to the main dining hall. He wasn't likely to enjoy the raucous feast.

-()-()-()-()-

Gloved fingers, the leather covering the Gedwey Ignasia that Eragon passed off as a strange shaped scar; one with an interesting back story, drummed against the table as a drunk Lord next to him droned on, _regaling_ him with what was likely meant to be a thrilling tale. Finally growing too sick of the man to continue, and knowing that the man, as drunk as he was, passing out would be far from suspicious, Eragon laid his right palm flat; ensuring no light would escape, on the table and brought up the magic, as was second nature to him.

_'Slytha_.' He thought.

The man slumped, and his head thumped against the table. The snores assured those around him that he was asleep, not dead.

No longer needing to stay at the table, Eragon stood ,with a smirk, and moved on. He'd been here for an hour now, and was fairly sure that he could justify leaving by this point in time. It would be best, however, to let Lord Stark know before he left; it would be rude not to.

With that in mind, Eragon began to navigate through the maze of intoxicated men, looking to brag, and the drunken women; looking to dance or fuck. As he did so, he felt a hand grip his arm, and turned to face one of the few sober men in the room.

"Ser Jaime," Eragon bowed his head to the golden haired knight.

"Huh; I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Jaime remarked. "You know my name, but no-one has told me yours. If you were wearing a sigil, of course, that may be another matter."

"I doubt that, Ser. I would be very shocked if you had seen my house's mark." He smiled, in poor humour. "It long since fell from grace, and I am the last of my family. Nor do I have any land to my name."

"Oh? And what is your name?" The Kingslayer asked the mysterious man.

"Eragon, of the fallen house Rider."

"And how did you come to be in the service of Lord Stark?"

"I encountered him while delivering the King's justice to a deserter of the Night's Watch. Of course, I was unsure what it was he was doing and, so, wished to check nothing... unlawful was occurring." Eragon responded. "Of course, Lord Stark virtually oozes honour. I had nothing else to spend my time doing, so I work for the Stark household."

"Doing?" The Kings-guard wondered aloud.

"Hmm. Nothing specific. A member of his guard, officially, but he seems to trust more to me than that." Eragon shrugged, making sure not to reveal too much.

"Interesting. I hope to meet you in combat some day. In a tourney, perhaps. Are you a Ser?"

"That depends on whether my Lord has broached the subject with the King yet. He seems hell bent to give me that honour."

"Hmm. That is good to know." The blonde walked away, and Eragon continued on his way; heading for the Lord of Winterfell.

"Lord Stark," Eragon began. "I hope you're enjoying the feast."

"And what do you think the chances of that are?" The broad Lord chuckled. "I despise these celebrations as much as you, but I am required to stay here for the entire meal. I have half a mind to force you to stay with me; misery loves company, after all." Ned grinned at his, in his mind, younger friend.

"Ah. That would be a harsh punishment for any slight, My Lord." Eragon returned the expression. "But you know me well. May I be excused?"

"Fine. Go, and leave me here." Eddard smirked, waving Eragon away. As the brown haired human-elf hybrid turned, the man spoke again. "Ah. But first, would you do me the favour of taking Arya with you? If I know my daughter, she's about five minutes from making a scene." The girl had begun fidgeting quite incessantly, and Eragon was sure that the Lord was correct.

"Of course."

Arya was very light, as was made evident to any and all watching as Eragon scooped her up, and placed her down on the ground; earning a small squeak of surprise from the girl, who had been mashing her vegetables in to a paste, before she glanced up and saw just who had removed her from her seat.

"C'mon, Little Lady. It's about time you retire; we don't want you to learn to emulate these Lords and Lady's do we? You're badly behaved enough as it is."

"Aw, I was about to start a food fight with Sansa." The girl complained.

"A food fight requires both parties to be flinging things," He ruffled the child's hair, and continued. "While you would have partook with the greatest enthusiasm, your sister would not have been so willing. She's much more ladylike, like that."

"Hmph. I know that." Eragon, once again, received a soliloquy from Arya explaining all the bad that came from her lessons from 'the old hag', as the Stark children called her teacher.

-()-()-()-

It showed, quite well, the faith Lord Stark had in Eragon, that he was letting his guard choose whether to stay here, with Lady Catelyn and his sons, or to accompany him and the girls down to King's landing.

Eragon was almost _disappointed_ to say how easy it was for him to decide. Here in the North, it was obvious that there would be trouble. There always was, sadly, but it would be typical trouble. Chances are, it would be nothing too difficult for the Starks, who would stay here, to manage. In the event that they were endangered, Catelyn and Rob could call on the remaining advisors of Ned for assistance.

In King's Landing, however, there were many _many_ dangers for Ned and, more importantly for both Ned and Eragon, Arya, Sansa and, if he chose to come, Bran. In fact Catelyn's wrath, if Eragon was to stay and risk endangering her husband and children, was enough to make up the Rider's mind. Both Stark parents were well aware of the fact that Eragon was, undoubtedly, the most capable warrior in their employ. And Eragon, admittedly, felt rather unappreciated at this point in time. Why did he need to be following an alarmingly intoxicated King as he and his party went hunting.

"So! Lad! I'm told your family's name's gone to shit in the past, that's a shame!" Robert exclaimed, directing this at Eragon. "What was the name again, Ned?!"

"Rider, your Grace."

"Rider, hmm. I feel like I've heard that name before..." The King trailed off, thinking on the origin of that thought. "Eragon Rider... where'd you get that name, boy?"

"It came from one of my ancestors, your Grace." Eragon answered. "I'm not sure who, exactly, but I think it was quite a common name for my family members to have. One of my father's cousins bore the same name as me."

"Ah! That must be who it is, then. My own father told me of a man called Eragon before, though he never said his family _name_ was Rider; I assumed he was simply a talented horseman." Robert chuckled. "Your father's cousin saved my father from being skewered when I was only a child. Did nought but delay the inevitable, but my family owes yours a debt, it seems!"

"I assure you, my Grace, my relative would not have held you to that, and I am no more inclined to presume to ask of something. I heard of his saving a Lord with a stag sigil, as well, but my namesake was only there by happen-stance. Had he left your father and his men, Eragon would not have been spared the same fate as they; one of the raiders killed his horse and he was stranded there." Eragon shook his head. "If anything, my family owes yours a debt; he would not have made it to the city had your father not provided him with another horse and shown him the way."

"Bah! That's not how I heard it!" Robert dismissed Eragon's dodging, and called over to Ned. "That Eragon man took down a dozen men by himself, Ned! Sounded like an amazin' sight to see; putting down skilled fighters like that like dogs, and on their own turf, too!" The man grinned, as he imagined the sight; or, more likely, himself in Eragon's place.

"Oh? It sounds like you and your namesake have something in common, Eragon." He turned to the king, and explained the statement. "You would love to see Eragon, here, fight, Robert. As skilled a fighter as I've ever seen." The man grinned at the king; a grin that wouldn't last much longer. "He's saved my neck a couple of times, for sure."

"Oh? Why didn't you just lead with that, Ned?! The tourneys could use some new talent to knock my brother-in-law of his high fucking horse!" Robert boomed out a laugh at his own statement, and clapped a hand on Eragon's shoulder next to him. "Aye, Lad! I'll give you some titles when we get back to the Rat's nest of a capital. Just promise me a good show at the Hand's tourney!"

"Of course, your Grace." Eragon grinned at the prospect, and chuckled along with Lords Stark and Baratheon. "Eh? Um, My Lords, were we expecting someone else?" The entire party was accounted for, by the magic user's reckoning, so why was a rider approaching at such speeds?

"No. Why do you ask?" Ned responded, before the sound of galloping reached the rest of the hunters. "Who is that?" The unnamed messenger reached Eddard, and pulled his horse to a sudden stop.

"My Lord- I've been ordered by your Lady wife to give this to you as soon as possible." He panted out, holding a scroll out to the Lord of Winterfell.

Ned, with a worried expression, tore the note open and, alarmingly to those present, took off at a sprint towards their tethered horses. Eragon had never seen him run so fast.

Fortunately, the panicked Lord had dropped the note upon finishing it, and Eragon quickly scooped it up to check whether he was needed. He breathed out a curse, before turning to the king once again.

"Your Grace, I'm sorry to say that Lord Stark is needed back at Winterfell. There... has been an accident. His son, Brandon Stark, has apparently fallen from one of the towers. They are not sure whether he will make it." The look of shock, and outrage, on the King's face made it clear to Eragon that the hunt was, thankfully, over, and so he spoke again. "I can show you back to the castle, if I may." Despite his desire to rush back himself, knowing that not only could he reach Winterfell before any horse in the land, but that his skills at healing would also be a great help, this would be a far from wise course of action. Besides, the Maester here was very skilled, and could almost certainly, at worst, delay the inevitable until Eragon returned.

"Of course, of course. Lead the way." Robert's brow dipped in to a frown, and he quickly strode in the direction his oldest friend had taken moments before.

As they mounted the horses, Eragon's mind reached out to the agitated steeds.

'_Ganga fram, eom Winterfell._' The horses happily hastened to obey.

-()-()-

_Hvass_\- Sharpen

_Slytha_\- Sleep

_Ganga fram, eom Winterfell_\- Go forward, to Winterfell.

-()-()-()-

**Not much else to say, except to ask you to Review to let me know you are interested in this story.**


	3. Nymeria and the Prince

**One thing. For some characters (Ned Stark, for example) I'm imagining their character slightly differently to the actor that plays them. For Ned, I don't think that Sean Bean (Great actor as he is) was ****_big_****enough to properly portray him. So... imagine Sean Bean a bit broader and half a foot taller. The same with Robert Baratheon.**

**Don't expect updates this frequently normally; I just felt like writing some more, mainly because I don't like having such a small number of words.**

**The Ancient Language does not have every word, but the origins of most of it is from Old Norse words. Because of this, I'll use Norse Words when I can't find a suitable word from Paolini's Canon.**

**Please remember to Follow/Favourite/Review, to let me know there is interest in The Stranger's Fire.**

-()-()-()-

Catelyn Stark, unknowingly, was hindering her child's recovery by refusing to leave his side. If she would just leave for a _minute_, then Eragon could get to work. He supposed that he could fool her senses, but that would be an unnecessary risk. Bran was out of the woods, at this point, and so Eragon was not in any rush to help him.

Well; he wasn't in any rush prior to _now._ Surely the woman would leave to say goodbye to her daughters and husband. Otherwise, Eragon would be very hard pressed to induce Bran's _miraculous_ recovery.

From his place outside the Stark residence, Eragon was keeping one eye on the doorway just in case his opportunity came during this time to sneak in to the crippled boy's room. Currently, Eragon's bowstring was drawn back, and the arrow was lined up on the battered target at the end of the shooting range. With a _twang_, the arrow flew, and thudded in to the bull's eye, piercing through the fabric and embedding deep in to the wood below. Another followed shortly, and split the first, and the Dragon Rider took two steps right, centring another target in his vision and letting lose a third arrow. Before the arrow had reached its destination, Eragon let loose another, and turned before the result was clear; knowing well that both would fly true, and meet their mark. Dropping the bow, that he would later care for to ensure no damage came from such an action, Eragon scooped up the borrowed mace resting at his feet.

By training with the mace, far heavier than Brisingr, his effectiveness with any and all weapons was improved. The Brightsteel blade weighed the same as one of his knives, after all. It was difficult to transfer his skills with his prized sword to any other weapon he may need to use at a moments notice.

Blunt weapons weren't something Eragon would use in battle; his experiences with Roran's staff proved that a sharp point was far more effective against an enemy than hitting them something solid. Granted, if you could hit them on the head, a man would be neutralised by a staff, hammer or mace, but otherwise you could not guarantee they wouldn't get back up and stab you in the back.

It was a testament to the little man's intelligence, and the mental strength that came along with that in this world, that Eragon, admittedly distracted, did not register his presence until a clapping caught his attention.

"An impressive display, soon-to-be Ser." The Imp commented, after a few moments of watching Eragon put on what would be an impressive display of swordsmanship with a _sword_. "You must be stronger than you look." It was obvious that the man was muscular, from where Tyrion was stood, but he had never seen someone able to move like the man in front of him was.

"Thank you, my Lord." Eragon responded, with a dip of his head; hiding the surprise that he felt at the half-man's appearance. It was a failure on the brown haired man's part that he had let him get so near without noticing Tyrion's presence. In Alagaesia, such a muted presence would be nothing larger than a squirrel, and so Eragon was not particularly alert to the younger Lannister. "I was not aware that I had an audience."

"I was not here for that purpose, good Ser. I come to pay my respects to Lady and Lord Stark. Are they in the boy's room?"

"I believe so, yes." Eragon nodded at the near doorway. "Lady Stark certainly is, at the very least."

"Thank you for the information. Is there any new news on the boy's health?" Tyrion asked, with a frown.

"Not a lot. He is unconscious, but I'm sure you knew that. If Bran awoke, news would spread instantaneously. Thankfully, the Maester assures us that he will live." Eragon grinned as the dwarf felt some small relief; sympathy for the boy's plight palpable to the mind-reader. Say what you want about Tyrion Lannister, none of which would likely be pleasant, he was not truly despicable. Not something that could be said for all to many of these Lords and Ladies. "I am sure that they would be glad to hear your respects, but I would ask that you be patient with them; Lady Stark is not likely to be reasonable at this point in time."

"Of course. I was not expecting anything else." The dwarf nodded, before heading inside.

-()-()-()-

The next day, Eragon's need for speed was growing ever more prominent. The King, and his company, needed to be heading back to the capital. Ned, of course, was going with them, and Eragon could not justify staying behind at this point in time. It was _obvious_ that he would be going with Eddard, Sansa and Arya, for the same reason he had reached before. In the land of snakes and rats, a wolf was ill suited. Ned was, at his very essence, an honourable man. Sansa was blinded by her strange infatuation with the prince, and so would not be able to help her father. Arya was too young, and far too brazen, to get involved in Politics. Eragon, on the other hand, had far more experience than he would like in the art of politics; having had to placate many Lords and Kings in Alagaesia, all of whom had a bloated sense of self worth. The Dragon Rider's attention was pulled away from thoughts of the future, as he noticed one of Eddard's sons in what was unlikely a good position.

Jaime Lannister was not likely to be comforting Jon, Eragon was aware. The man was as arrogant as anybody he had encountered, and Jon had a temper. It would be best for everyone involved if Eragon intervened. Unfortunately, Eragon was stopped from doing so, by a small golden bundle running head first in to his stomach.

"Ooph." Eragon grunted, as his hands snapped out; catching the young Baratheon as he stumbled back. Righting Tommen, Eragon dropped to a knee. "Apologies, my Prince," The soon-to-be Ser said, only to be ignored by the prince, who took off at a run once again. "Goodbye, then."

Tinkling laughter followed his statement, and yet another blonde blur approached, in pursuit of her brother. These two siblings seemed far more merry than their older brother; that was a good thing, for sure.

And that small distraction allowed the conversation Eragon had been about to interrupt to come to an abrupt end. Catching Jon's eye, Eragon nodded to him, and strode over.

"So, I hear you're heading off as well." Eragon commented, referring to the bastard's decision to join the Night's Watch. "Though in the other direction."

"And you think I'd be accepted in King's Landing?" Jon snorted. "I'm barely tolerated here."

"You mean Lady Stark barely tolerates you." Eragon corrected, with a shake of his head.

"Isn't that enough? Father's leaving. So are you and the girls. I've always wanted to see the Wall, and Father's finally going to let me join the Order."

"You know its not what it's cracked up to be." Eragon commented. "The songs and stories make it sound like the men manning the wall are glorious soldiers; driven by honour and a desire to protect the realm. That, my friend, is bullshit. There are some like that, of course, but they are rare. The majority are criminals. Rapists. Murderers. Men who _certainly_ do not have an ounce of honour." At the determined look on Jon's face, Eragon continued. "Ah, but that does not matter to you, does it?

"No! Look at Uncle Benjen; whatever men you've met, you're wrong about the Night's watch." Jon shook his head.

"Alright then." Eragon clapped Ned's son on the shoulder, and continued. "I'll just say this; I wish you luck wherever you end up. Whatever your new brothers are like, I'm sure you'll do great in the Night's Watch."

"Thank you, Eragon. I hope we see each other again soon." Jon embraced Eragon, and went back to his gift for Arya.

-()-()-()-

"Lady Stark?" The sad, tired woman looked up, and found a sight for sore eyes. While she, and her husband, had no idea of the true origins of his most trusted advisor, Catelyn Stark _knew_ Eragon was not exactly who he said he was. If his family fell from grace long ago, as Eragon said, it did not stop him from having wealth to rival their own; he never seemed to run low on gems and neither of the two asked where he found these beautiful stones. Mainly because he did not sell them as one would expect, but instead hoarded them; occasionally gifting the jewels to their children and Lady Stark. The only one Eddard was willing to accept was an odd, black diamond embedded in the breastplate of his favourite set of armour.

Lady Catelyn's first clue that there was something more to Eragon than an extremely loyal, and very talented, warrior of Eddard's, was soon after he had given Arya her first necklace. The girl had always been... adventurous, and it was inevitable, much like Bran, that eventually it would backfire for her. Thankfully, hers had not gone anywhere near as bad as her brother's fall. Though it could have been much worse. Arya, age 7, had ignored warnings from her parents about a mountain lion that, somehow, had arrived in the Godswood just outside Winterfell. The fact that it had, instead of tearing the girl's throat out, like it had for every other human it had encountered, convinced Ned that the Old Gods had intervened. That it had attacked him as soon as Arya's farther found her again did not, apparently, reduce his faith in this intervention, but it did shake Catelyn's. Probably because she did not have faith in them in the first place.

Eragon had done _something_. As hard as she found it to believe, nobody denied the existence of magic, once upon a time. Eragon had magic, she now believed. If anything could help her son, surely magic held the answer.

"Come in, Eragon." She gave a strained smile to the man, and he followed the instruction tentatively. "Are you here to say goodbye?"

"Yes, Milady." Eragon nodded. "May I?" He gestured towards the sleeping figure of Bran.

"Please do."

"Thank you." Eragon stepped over to the side of the bed, and reached inside his open coat. Once he removed his hand, Lady Stark saw what he had brought for her son. "If it is okay, I brought this for Bran." It was a pin and, had the gem not been present, it would look much like any of the others Bran, like all Lordlings, owned. The jewel resting in the eye of the raven was small, but the ruby was a deeper red than Catelyn could ever remember seeing. She smiled, trusting that this was a good sign. Eraon placed it onto the boy's bedside table, before leaning over Bran, placing his right, gloved hand, on the boy's shoulder. Catelyn could not make out the words Eragon mouthed; both because it was too quiet, and because it was not a language of this land.

_'Brakka du haina eom thornessa togiras carthungave._' Eragon spoke in his mind, a trickle of energy coming from the small, precious gem as he did. This would not be a miraculous recovery. Bran would not walk again before his father reached King's Landing, and even then the muscle would need to regenerate, but the boy _would_ walk again. In fact, he would make a full recovery eventually. Enough time for suspicion to not be cast on Eragon.

"Thank you, My Lady." Eragon gave a smile to the woman. "Don't worry; I'm sure Bran will be fine. He's a tough little Lo-ooph!" The woman had _jumped_ at him, and pulled Eragon in to a hug. Something Eragon felt safe in saying was out of character for the Stark mother.

"Thank you, Eragon."

-()-()-()-

It was a shame that Eragon could not remember the _exact_ words of his old teacher, he knew that Oromis had told him of how, when one became as attuned as... well, as Eragon now was, much could be done with a single word. Not ideal for magic in battle, as one had to know the path from the word to what you desired, but it was a good skill to practise when, much like now, he had the time. If a magic user, like he, knew the word well enough, it _could_ be used at a moments notice.

Currently, he was watching Eddard and Jon saying goodbye. It was a private matter, but he and the rest of the Stark soldiers were not under the impression that Ned would care if they were within _seeing_ distance, at least. Arya was with them, though her sister had chosen to ride towards the front of the carriage, sat on a comfortable carriage with Nymeria. Despite the girl's want to ride a horse to King's landing, Ned had refused to allow her; making it clear that, due to the length of time, even he did not wish to ride the many leagues. She was lucky to have a place on the carriage, as the Stark's did not have the equivalent of Robert's monstrosity.

They would be at the next town by the afternoon though, fortunately. It was very tedious to move with the company when you were entirely capable of running to the capital far faster than even these horses would be able.

-()-()-()-

"Lady?" A confused Eragon asked, as he walked down the street, on the lookout for the Sansa and Arya Stark, as their Lord father was dining with the King. "Why are you here? Where's Sansa?" His mind extended to the mind of the Direwolf, and he found the answer in her memories; pushed to the front of her mind by the intelligent canine. "The Prince." What Joffrey would do to Sansa, Eragon had no idea, but even the slight brushes against the sadistic Prince had told him that the boy was, without a doubt, bad news.

It was easy enough to find the girl and her betrothed, for Eragon, but what he found did not reassure him one bit.

-(_)-(_)-

"Arya!" Sansa berated her younger sibling.

"Ow! What are you doing here?! Go _away_!" Arya told her sister.

"Your sister?" A golden haired boy asked.

Sansa Stark, betrothed of Joffrey Baratheon, watched, torn, as her husband-to-be approached her sister and the Butcher's boy.

"And who are you, boy?" Joffrey questioned the overweight, ginger boy who had been 'sparring' with Arya Stark.

"Micah, my Lord." The now named Micah replied. He had dropped the stick, after whacking Arya with it, once he was addressed by the prince.

"He's the _Butcher's_ boy." Sansa added. It wasn't right for her sister to be playing with this boy.

"He's my _friend_!" Arya corrected her sister.

"A Butcher's boy who wants to be a knight?" Joffrey asked, in amusement. Pick up your sword, Butcher's boy; let's see how good you are." He drew his sword, a fine work, and stepped closer to Micah.

"She asked me to, My Lord! She asked me to!" Micah defended his sparring with Arya.

"I am your _Prince_, not your _Lord_, and I said pick. Up. Your. Sword."

"It's not a sword, my Prince, it's just a stick!"

"And _you_'re not a knight... Only a Butcher's boy." Joffrey murmured, as he lifted his blade, placing the tip against Micah's cheek. "That was my Lady's sister you were hitting. Did you know that?"

"Stop it!" The small figure of Arya Stark demanded.

"Arya, stay out of this!" Her sister shot her down.

"Don't worry. I won't hurt him... much." The blonde Prince increased the pressure on his blade, and a cut slowly opened on Micah's face. The freckled boy grimaced, and water filled his eyes.

Arya, well known to have a short fuse, leapt in to action; defending her friend. She cracked her stick over the Prince's back, and let out a cry of anger.

"Arya!" Sansa barked at her sister, as her betrothed spun, angry, and with his sword in hand. Joffrey swung, again, and again. Arya leapt aside, her small form proving helpful for her to avoid the wild swings.

No, no! Stop it! Stop it both of you! You're ruining everything!" The redhaired Stark girl cried, as Arya tripped and Joffrey loomed over her.

"I'll gut you, you little cunt!" He spat at the girl, as point of his sword hovered over her chest, and he glared at her. A growl rang through the clearing.

'_Ach nieat bita. Thorta._'

Nymeria leapt in to the clearing, and ran at the boy attacking her mistress. She would have torn at him, had she not been given the order not to do so. Instead, the canine simply barked, scaring the wits out of the scared Prince, who screamed and scrambled back, as Arya grabbed her Direwolf around the chest and tugged her off the whimpering prince.

"Lady Arya!" A familiar voice from just behind Sansa called. Eragon jogged past the red haired Stark. "Are you hurt?" He dropped to his knees next to the girl, and placed his hands on her shoulders, worriedly. Meeting her eyes, Eragon verified that the girl was, in fact, uninjured, before standing again.

He walked to the Prince, still sobbing on the floor, and crouched down.

"Are you okay, Prince Joffrey? Did Nymeria scare you?" Eragon asked, before continuing; his voice cold as steel. "Perhaps you should avoid _threatening_ harm onto Lady Arya in the future. There are many, including Direwolves, as you saw, that are willing to _defend_ her and Sansa."

"_Scare_ me?! SCARE ME?! That- That _beast_ ATTACKED me! And _you_! _You_ did nothing to stop it!"

"My Prince, Eragon was not h-"

"I will have you charged for _treason_! Along with that little _bitch_ and her peasant friend!" The boy scrambled to his feet, and took off at a run; heading for where he knew his men to be, knowing they could escort him to his mother. His mother could then bring him to King Robert.

"Come on, girls. We need to head to the king."

-()-()-()-

Ned Stark, a look of cold anger, that inspired fear in any present, upon his face, strode through the makeshift courtroom; pushing the few soldiers stupid enough to get in his way to one side.

"What is going on here?" He asked, angrily, as he embraced his youngest daughter. Calming his tone, he directed the next question to Arya. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" She proclaimed. The girl was very nervous about the fact that she was, apparently, on trial at the moment, having been brought before the King.

"What happened?" He directed at Robert.

"You dare speak to your _King_ in that manne-" Cercei demanded, only to be interrupted by her husband.

"Quiet, woman! I'm sorry Ned, we just need to get this sorted out." Robert answered his friend. "My... son has just finished telling the courtroom a tale about your daughter, a friend of hers; a Butcher's boy, her wolf, and this here member of your guard attacking him." He nodded at the brown haired man standing tall, though not quite as tall as the imposing figure of Ned Stark, and continued. "Joffrey claims he managed to escape, though he had to leave his sword. Quite frankly, I think that's bullshit!" Ignoring the cry of outrage from his wife and son, he gestured to Eragon. "Do you know why I think that's shit, Eragon of house Rider?"

"I would venture a guess that you realise, your Grace, that if I was to attempt to kill the Prince, with only three children present to make any attempt to stop me, I would not fail to do so."

"That's right! Unless Ned's tales of your prowess were complete fiction, I have no doubt you would be able to kill my son. So why don't you give me your side of the story, and we can get this all straightened out!"

"Of course, your Grace." Eragon bowed his head, before speaking. "I was not there for the entire thing, of course, else I would not have let the situation escalate so needlessly. As I arrived, I saw your son's blade on the Butcher boy's face, and a bit of blood running down Micah's face; I think that was his name. It was an unsubstantial amount, Your Grace, and any of your men would have been unbothered by such a cut; that may be why your son did not think that his cutting the boy was justified. If one grows up around hard men, you grow to think all men are like that." Eragon shrugged. He did not believe this, himself, but there was little chance of Robert taking his son being called a creepy little sadist well.

"Even so, Lady Arya reacted with what she believed to be justice; a trait that was given much emphasis growing up in the Stark household, as I am sure you understand," Robert knew Ned to are deeply for _justice_. "She hit him over the back with the stick she had been using to 'spar' with the boy. I cannot know for sure, but based on Arya's size I would not think that this would cause a son of yours any real pain. Nevertheless, Joffrey grew angry at this, and swung for Arya with his sword. The one that I have given to your man, Your Grace," He nodded at an unnamed servant of Roberts, who was holding the Prince's sword carefully. Eragon ignored the rumbling growl that came from Eddard beside him, and continued. "Fortunately, Arya was nimble enough to evade the sword several times, but the girl has never been trained in such things, so it was inevitable for her to stumble. Lady Arya fell to the ground, and your son pointed his sword at her in a... threatening manner. I distinctly heard him say "I'll gut you, you little cunt", as he did so. I am sure you can understand, your Grace, that Direwolves are protective instinctively. Nymeria showed great restraint in not doing any damage to your son.

"I am not sure what I did to give Prince Joffrey the impression that I wished him harm, Your Grace. I only warned him about the dangers of attacking the owner of a Direwolf. I assumed he was unaware of this fact, as Direwolves are rare even in the North."

"H-He lies!" Joffrey announced, as his father nodded at the retelling of the story from Eragon's perspective. "He tried to kill me, Father!"

"Quiet!" Robert ordered his son. "Bah! That sounds much more believable to me. Unless Ned's other daughter tells it the same as Joffrey, and does it far more convincingly, I'd just let this matter rest. Children fight, that's a fact of life."

"That... Robert, why would you believe this... this common _footsoldier_ over your own _son_?" Cercei hissed at the man sat in her chair. The blonde woman knew that Sansa, even if she supported Joffrey, would not be convincing in her rendition. "Joffrey has _no reason_ to lie about this!" She snapped at the man. It was concerning that Robert chuckled at this; ordinarily, anger would be a given. He may well have struck his queen, in fact.

"Haha! Would you like it better if I took the side of a knight?" He stood up, the slight sway indicating that he _had_ been drinking at some point in the night. "In that case, bend a knee, Eragon of house Rider, and I'll knight you here and now!"

_-_()-()-

_Brakka du haina eom thornessa togiras carthungave.- _Reduce the harm to this cripple's spine

_Ach nieat bita. Thorta-_ Do not bite. Speak.

-()-()-


	4. King's Landing

**Here's another chapter.**

**I hope you all enjoy it, and that you favourite, follow and review.**

**I own nothing.**

-()-()-

"I've never been in King's landing before." Eragon commented, as the group from the North passed through the main gate; growing nearer to the main gate. "It... stinks."

"That it does." Jory agreed, from the horse next to Eragon's. "Of shit, piss and sex. Yet, I hear some people _like_ the odour." He shook his head, not understanding how anyone could, but people were different here in the south.

"I guess if you are here for long enough, you have to either grow to tolerate it or toss yourself from the highest tower." The newly knighted man made a face. "And, chances are, we'll have to make that choice ourselves; now that we serve the King's Hand."

"Aye. I suppose we will."

"Lord Stark!" A messenger approached, finding the man he had been sent to give his message. "Greetings, Head Maester Pycell has called a small council meeting. The honour of your presence is requested." The Lord nodded, and turned back to his company. "Get the girls settled in. I'll be back by supper," He told Septa Mordane, the girls' teacher. "Jory, you go with them. Eragon, you're with me." Eragon would, in his own way, be able to get a feel for the small council members by meeting them. Eddard felt sure he would need this insight.

-()-()-()-

Other than a brief conversation with Jaime Lannister, in which it was made clear to Eragon that the Lannister's views, particularly on honour, clashed rather seriously with Ned's, the journey to the small council's meeting chamber was uneventful. On first glance, the Iron throne and the throne room around it was rather unspectacular. Especially since there were no dragon heads, as Eragon was lead to believe had resided here previously. _That_ would have been a spectacular sight to see; though not one that Eragon could call pleasant.

Personally, Eragon was not sure how he felt about Jaime Lannister's actions. He had always had thoughts of honour, and stuck to them whenever possible, but the fact of the matter was that Aerys Targaryen _deserved_ to die. _Needed_ to die almost as much as Galbatorix; if he had lived foras long as the Dragon Rider kin, Aerys _would_ have been. That he died from being stabbed in the back by his kings-guard was... unimportant to Eragon. A man like that would not have died honourably, no matter what. Chances are, the mad king would have either fled the city or come up with some insane scheme to take everybody with him when he died. The arrogant Lannister may well have saved thousands from a horrendous fate.

"Lord Stark," A soft voice began, as the Northern Lord entered the small chamber. "I am gladdened to see that you have arrived safely; eventful though your trip was... eventful." Eragon could plainly see the anger threatening to break Eddard's calm facade. Even if he attempted to hide it, the fate of Micah weighed heavily on Lord Stark; especially because of the horror his youngest daughter had reacted with.

"It is good to meet you, Lord Varys." His willpower prevailed. "It was eventful, yes."

"Renly!" He spotted a familiar face in the chamber, and embraced Robert's younger brother. "You're looking well."

"And you look tired from the road." Renly commented. "I told them this meeting could wait 'til tomorrow, but-"

"But we have a kingdom to look after." Littlefinger interrupted. "I've hoped to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. I am sure your wife has mentioned me?"

"That she has, Lord Baelish. I understand you knew my brother Brandon, as well." Ned smirked ever do slightly.

"All too well. I still carry a token of his esteem. From naval to collarbone."

"Perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel with."

"It was not the man I chose, my Lord. It was Lady Catelyn Tulley. A woman worth fighting for, as I am sure you will agree." Thankfully, what would have been a rather awkward silence was quickly prevented by the old man next to Ned speaking up, as Eragon stopped paying attention.

-()()()-

As Ned left the chamber, he found Eragon quickly enough; the Knight having been asked to leave as they moved on to official business.

"So? Is there anything I need to warn the King of?"

"Not really, no. I wouldn't trust a single one of them as far as I could throw them, if I were you, but none of them are _overly_ sinister." Eragon had opened his mind properly during the brief time he was allowed in the meeting, and quite easily gleaned the types of person Lord Stark would have to deal with. "Renly is trustworthy enough; his biggest secret is quite well known, I believe; at least the others in the council were aware of it, and the _rumours_ about his... sexual orientation are widespread. Varys and Littlefinger are secretive and slimy, but I don't think either of them has reason to act against you or the king. Littlefinger is just selfish, through and through, while Varys cares about the good of the realm, from what I could tell. I've never actually met someone like him. Robert's not a great king, but any attempt to change the monarch would result in too much trouble for either of them to necessarily benefit." Ned nodded, as he knew most of the information he'd just been supplied with. He did not care what Renly did in the bedroom, unlike a lot of people, and the master of coin and... spies were both very useful to the realm in their own way, however Ned and Robert felt about the activity.

"The Maester is creepy. _Really _creepy. He acts more frail than he is, and is a... perverted old man, but doesn't actually hurt anyone. The people he uses for his fantasies are whores, and nobody would really fault him for doing that stuff. Or at least, nobody in the Capital. There are whorehouses everywhere here." In the immediate area of Winterfell, there was only the one, and that was only allowed by Eddard because it had been there for several generations.

"Well, that's all good to know. I was already aware that the council was not made of particularly honourable men." Eddard sighed wearily, before continuing. "Now, I need to pick something up I commissioned for Sansa, then I'll visit the girls. We don't need you for the rest of the day, so feel free to... do whatever you would like to do."

"I hear their Sept is quite grand," Eragon said, with a shrug. "I'll see whether it lives up to its reputation."

"Oh? I didn't know you worshipped the Seven." Ned commented, with surprise obvious in his tone. He did not think Eragon believed in any gods.

"I don't, Lord Stark, but I think there's... _something_ more. A god or gods, I suppose, and I find the religions worshipped in this land fascinating. I won't believe in one or the other until I meet my maker, I imagine. That or I see conclusive proof." Eragon had long since told Eddard that he did not come from Westeros; simply saying that his origin was in a land farther away than the known world, and that his father's forefathers had come generations before, yet had never truly settled. That also explained why he had knowledge of all manner of places; he liked to travel.

Westeros could only hold his attention for so long, after all, and the most important part of the land; beyond the wall, was _cold_.

"I will see you later, then, Eragon. Remember, the King gave you chambers not too far from the girls at my request." The Northerner frowned slightly. "If I have to stay in the Tower of the Hand, I'm not going to let the two be unprotected." Even if they were near tower, by most people's reckoning, it was best to have his most capable sword near Arya and Sansa. As Eddard said this, another thought crept in to his mind. One about another child, of a girl _he_ considered a child, even if Robert seemed to disagree, a world away. He was fairly certain that the topic of Daenerys Targaryen would come up again soon, and wondered whether Eragon would have anything to contribute. By the time he decided he best ask, however, the newly made Knight had disappeared.

-()-()-()-

The Faith of the Seven was, in his opinion, more interesting than the Old Gods, for the simple reason that there was nothing _specific_ to observe or _do_ for the Northern religion; just a form of meditation. That each tree had a spirit was very believable to Eragon; who could feel the energy of each of them. Though that rocks had the same reminded him of the Dwarven beliefs back in Alagaesia, and he had never seen anything that suggested, to him, that there was any energy contained in them; unless you count the small creatures that lived beneath.

The countless, pointless ceremonies of the Faith of the Seven still confused Eragon, though, for the simple reason that he could not see why a god would _care_. Which of the seven faces gave a damn about these strange, illogical ceremonies?

Would the Father, who was all about justice, hold it against those who didn't get seven oils rubbed on them as a baby?

Would the Mother? Who represented _mercy_? Would she not bless the children born without these conditions? Who were not born in the right location to have these traditions?

The loving Maiden? Would she condemn those who, like herself, were innocent?

The _wise_ Crone would not see the reason to do such a thing, Eragon was sure.

The Warrior favoured strength, more than anything. These acts meant nothing in battle, and so he would not have a reason to give them weight.

Why would the Smith? Surely human lives were his greatest accomplishment. Such an amazing creation.

And the Stranger... well, he took babes, Eragon was aware, but did not differentiate between those of the Faith of the Seven and the worshippers of other gods. In fact, the Stranger very rarely received prayer. That face of the one god was not revered as the others.

No. Eragon did not feel the need to attempt to appease whatever deity there was. If there were any actions he took that were deserving of condemnation, the Dragon Rider would gladly answer for them after the god of Death, whichever one was true, took him, and, in the case of the Seven, he was placed before the Father to be judged.

On a less depressing note, Eragon was impressed by the extravagance of the royal Sept. How much work they must have put in to the building of it was remarkable, if unnecessary.

-()-()-()-

"You are late, Boy." An accented man announced, as Arya Stark, with Eragon 'Rider' following close behind, walked in to a large room; a balcony on the opposite side. "Tomorrow you will be here at midday."

"Me?" Eragon replied, since Arya was female.

"No, not you." Syrio Forel. "I am assuming that I am not teaching you, since you have that sword on your hip." He nodded to Brisingr; which currently had its sheath covered by a leather sleeve to reduce the conspicuousness of it and, therefore, Eragon; the hilt not being too out of place on the hip of a 'knight'. "Though I am sure, based on your youth, that you will learn something even through observation."

"I wouldn't count on it." Eragon replied, with a smirk, before Arya interrupted him.

"I'm not a boy! I'm a girl!" Arya said, indignant. "And who are you, anyway?"

"I... am your dancing master; Syrio Forel." Syrio answered his student. The foreigner revealed a pair of wooden swords, and tossed one at Arya, who did not catch it. As it clattered to the ground, Syrio continued. "Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up." The girl did, only to be corrected. "That is not correct, Boy. It is not a great sword that is needing two hands to swing it." Arya attempted to hold it with a single hand, before the point dipped, and she complained.

"It's too heavy."

"It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong. One hand is all that is needed." As Arya tried again, Syrio stepped forward. "Now your stance is all wrong." He nudged her with the stick until she was stood side on. "You are skinny. This is good; it means the target will be smaller."

He proceeded to correct her grip similarly, as Eragon watched. The Rider had been sent by Lord Stark, for some reason. He didn't know why, exactly, but it may have been as simple as not wanting Arya to be alone; or to get an experienced perspective on this teacher's quality. Either way, as the man began dancing around Arya, dodging her feeble attempts, Eragon realised he had little to contribute to lessons such as these. He would be perfectly able to fight with a blade like that; same as with any weapon, but the style he used with Brisingr, and this... water dancing were _very _different, and Arya would be unable to use a bastard sword, as Eragon's blade was, effectively. Unless she had a remarkable growth spurt in the next few years.

The man, thankfully, seemed to have pure intentions; having a genuine love for the art form he was teaching Arya Stark even though he was, of course, being paid to do this by Lord Stark. At his core, Syrio Forel was... good.

"You! Feline man!" The first sword of Braavos got Eragon's attention with an interesting nickname; evidently the short man was more observant than the Rider had realised. "Step forwards, and draw that blade you brought with you."

"Why would I do that?"

"You wish to help your Lady grow better with her blade, do you not?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, let us show her why she is blessed to be so small; with her size, she can learn my art, instead of having to learn to fight as a knight such as you." Was he attempting to be insulting?

"You think that you're a superior fighter to me? Enough that you want to fight me, armed with my blade, with only a wooden stick?" Eragon questioned, slightly surprised. The man seemed intelligent, and many knights would take that as an affront and attack him to defend their honour

"It will not matter that you have a sword, when you are unable to touch me with it." The man countered, with a cocky countenance.

"That right there tells me you should not be teaching Arya. That someone else could be better suited." Eragon shook his head. "You have never seen me fight before, yet you are assuming you are my better and attempting to pick a fight. That is a wonderful way to get yourself killed, Syrio Forel, First sword of Braavos. I believe that I could defeat you without a weapon, but I would not be dumb enough to act on that opinion if you had a sword. I don't want Arya learning such an unbelievable arrogance, especially as she is hot headed already."

"And why is it okay for you to believe yourself my better, yet not for me; who obviously has far more experience than you." Syrio debated; assuming, by Eragon's appearance, that the man in front of him barely qualified as such; in his twenties, at most. "And mine is not arrogance, my friend. It is always best to aggravate your opponent, as you would well know if you were as good as you believe. An angry man will not be a wise fighter. Even if it was arrogance, I am of the belief that this would be founded, as you will be trained in the Westerosi method of fighting; hacking at each other repeatedly until one of you tires and makes a mistake."

"But you are wrong. I have fought with Westerosi Knights and soldiers, of course, but I have travelled further and wider than you. I'm almost certain of that, since I've never met someone who had travelled as much as I have. My fighting style certainly is not as single minded as the warriors of Westeros."

"If you believe this, then you will be willing to prove your prowess, will you not?" Syrio asked his would-be opponent, and brandished the wooden sword at Eragon.

"Again; I'm not going to fight you when I have a sword and you don't." The 'Knight' shook his head. "If I hit you, there's every chance that you'd get injured. Maybe even killed. That's not a risk I want to take." Of course, Eragon could have made the edge safe; using the technique he had learned from his father lifetimes ago, but how could he explain his sword being temporarily dulled to the stranger in front of him. "If you want to fight me so badly, I can bring a training sword next time I accompany Lady Arya to one of her lessons."

"Bah. I do not have a need to fight you; the Boy will see the wisdom of Water Dancing before you return." Syrio denied Eragon, and turned back to teaching Arya the ways of the sword. What this exchange was for, Eragon was not quite sure, and he couldn't find out, since the man in front of him had better mental shields than anyone he had met in this world. He would have to focus quite seriously on the disciplined man to read his mind.

Presumably, Syrio Forel had another reason, and Arya Stark would find out the truth soon enough, even if Eragon would not. To be a river dancer, one had to remain calm. Syrio had been attempting to goad a reaction from Eragon, to show her that even someone who her father trusted's skills so greatly would be helpless if he charged in against a man, particularly one who fought with skill instead of strength, as though an enraged bull.

-()-()-()-

"Eragon!" The man being called flinched ever so slightly at hearing Lord Stark. He didn't often believe in coincidences, and the man seeking a conversation with him so soon after Eragon's reassurance of Arya was not a good sign. Eddard had, quite foolishly, told the girl that she would be a Lady to some Lord when she grew up and this, unsurprisingly, was not well received by the tomboy-ish girl. Eragon had been there simply because he had nothing else to do; and Arya was the most likely of the Stark's to get in to trouble. To help her feel better, Eragon had assured her that he had met great warriors of the female gender and that, especially in parts of Essos, she would be able to become one herself.

He also may have said he would take her there when she was older, but he was hoping Ned did not know that.

"Yes, Lord Stark?"

"Do you have a moment?" The large man strode down the corridor towards Eragon, and glanced around; being more careful than Eragon was used to seeing from the Father Stark. "I need your help with something." The man, other than being cautious, also seemed quite... irritated. Eragon wondered what he had been doing to leave him like this.

"Of course. What is it you would have me do?"

"I've just had a conversation with Lord Baelish," Well, that explained it. "And Jorey's going to talk to Ser Hug; Jon Arryn's newly knighted squire. I'd ask that you come with me to visit a blacksmith that has been... recommended to me." Eddard requested, not giving much away to Eragon for the simple reason that he had very little knowledge of _why_ they were going in to the city to the street of steel.

"Okay, then. When are we going?"

"Immediately, is preferable." Ned Stark stated, and Eragon nodded.

-()-()-

"Didn't you say you'd been warned that there were many spies in King's Landing, my Lord?" Eragon asked; knowing that Eddard was risking discovery by coming to the Blacksmith his predecessor had frequented before his death. "Would it not have been better to send me here on your behalf?"

"Let the spies watch. I don't care." Ned dismissed the worries of his trusted advisor, and climbed off his horse. "Are you coming in?"

"I think I'll try to identify some of these spies, if you don't mind, Milord. It'd be useful to know what to look for."

"A good idea. This shouldn't take long." The Northerner nodded, turning and walking towards the large Blacksmith's shop.

As the Lord he served under went to visit the boy blacksmith, Eragon closed his eyes and opened his mind; stretching it out to observe the thoughts of the people, and what few animals chose to live in Flea Bottom; rats, mostly. In his frequent meditations while he was in this city, Eragon had just about grown bored of watching rats, and so dismissed them with ease. The humans, though, were fascinating around here.

A pickpocket trying to raise enough money to go back to one of Littlefinger's brothels scampered through the streets; fleeing from a member of the city's watch that had spotted him practising his trade. That same officer was worrying about his sick son, and would take his anger out on the thief if he caught up to the running man.

A low priced prostitute was remembering a night she had had with someone who had claimed to be a low-level Lord; the woman believed it, because he had been dressed well and she was naïve. As Eragon wandered through her mind, he was assaulted by an image of what she had done with him. Or, more specifically, what she and her brother, who apparently practised the same craft, did with the Lord. He promptly withdrew, and avoided her mind from that point on.

Two women and one child, however, stood out to the magician. Eragon felt the natural resistance to his mind-magic that many of those with noble blood in the child and the non-whore, while the prostitute, who worked in a high-class brothel owned by Baelish, was an amputee who, unlike her kind in Flea Bottom, had had the wound properly treated.

The child told him Varys was, unsurprisingly, paying attention to the comings and goings of Robert's bastard. He had come to discover it through observing the previous Hand of the King; as was the Spider's nature. Not particularly sinister of the eunuch, from what Eragon could tell.

The whore knew nothing about Baelish's actual intentions, but she herself seemed pleasant enough; having been purchased by Littlefinger, fetching very little with her _affliction_, and was obligated to spy for him whenever asked.

The other woman was _afraid_ of what would happen should she fail. That told him of the queen, and the nature of the powerful woman. She, too, had found the shop by following Jon Arryn. Other than that, Eragon gleamed nothing from the woman; Cercei had told her nothing of the reason for her task of spying. The woman was not brave enough to ask.

Only the three were anything approaching suspicious. None other than them had anything of interest to hide; a very large number were unpleasant for Eragon's mind to touch. The people in this... slum in the city tended to be disturbing, and Eragon had no interest in learning what had made them so. He would, some day, do his utmost to assist them, even if he had to dive in to the world of politics to do so, but at this time; with unrest on the horizon, there was no hope to help such a large population of the disgusting city.

"Was there anything of interest?" Eragon asked, as Eddard approached the horses.

"King Robert's Bastard son." The Stark man replied, with a frown. "Did you?"

"Three of them. All of your... friends have taken an interest in the shop, apparently."

"Why would they be watching him, though?" The troubled expression on Ned's face deepened. There was no doubt that Gendry was a Baratheon; Renly was too young to have fathered him, and Stannis was not the type. But why would LittleFinger, the Spider and the Queen care about Robert's Bastard? It wasn't surprising in any way, shape or form that he had fathered them. The King was far from subtle about his whoring.

"I'd like to know that, too." Eragon replied with his own frown, as the two climbed back on to the horses that had taken the through the city. What was he missing?

-()-()-()-()-


	5. The Hand's Tourney

**Here's another chapter. Just to let you know, I've started reading the books and, while I'm not going to introduce any spoilers to the TV show; especially since I really like the show myself and would be pissed if someone ruined it for me, in this chapter I included a couple of facts that I think would have made it run more smoothly.**

**The Mountain vs The Knight of Flowers was actually the semi-final, and the winner was going to go against the Hound, and the King was going to fight in the Melee; he wasn't going to suddenly be in the Joust despite not having fought in any previous matches.**

**I hope you enjoy the chapter. Please let me know if you do (through Reviews, Follows and Favourites).**

**-()-()-()-**

It was unfortunate that Eragon wouldn't be participating in the jousting. It was an... interesting activity, that he believed he would enjoy; but, alas, he was not allowed.

The armour he would require, and the time it took to have it made, was not pointed out to the Dragon Rider until it was too late, and the armour he owned was not suitable for the jousts; especially since he had no complete set with him, having left the heaviest at Winterfell simply because it seemed rather illogical to him to lug it across Westeros. Unlike the wonderful sets that had been gifted to Eragon by the dwarves, these sets were too... confining. Either because he was unused to it after many years without need for it, or because the blacksmiths of Westeros paled in comparison to the dwarves. Plus, so many of the idiot knights made themselves ridiculously slow in the belief that being covered head to toe in heavy steel would prevent them from dying at the hands of a more skilled opponent; forgetting that lances and swords could pierce plate if they were in the hands of somebody skilled. Those who had learned their lesson were not able to pass it on to their peers.

The reason it was unfortunate was mainly that he wished he could deal out _some_ form of punishment to the man in front of him.

The Mountain had done nothing to him directly, and he was not the only man that deserved to be judged, but the moronic thug deserved a painful death in Eragon's mind. What he had done to Elia Martell and her children was disgusting; yet Robert Baratheon had called it 'justified' because of the war, while Tywin Lannister, the master of the mad dog and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom; the only other person with the authority to bring him up on charges, had most likely ordered the horrendous act.

The squire-turned-knight up against the Clegane giant, in the massive man's 2nd match, stood little to no chance of victory, let alone to do damage to the man. Hell, even if Gregor Clegane was un-armored, with his bulk he would likely be able to take more punishment than his opponent. You could plainly see that Hugh knew this, as nervous sweat trailed down his face. This Ser Hugh was far from deserving of victory in the tournament as a whole, especially since he likely had something to do with the death of Jon Arryn; the timing of his knighthood being far too convenient for suspicion not to be cast on him, but Eragon still felt some sympathy for his misfortune; going up against one of the favourites to win, who was also prone to violence that was unnecessary in these events. It was worse luck than the competitors that would be facing Eragon himself in the melee on the morrow. Of course, Eragon would not kill any of them.

That train of thought took him back to the archery competition and, more specifically, the 20,000 gold that he was gifted for winning the contest. The way he saw it, there was no dishonour in competing, even if he was well aware of the fact that he would win going in to the contest; each of the men thought they would be easily victorious; he just had more reason for this assumption. Eragon was even willing to concede that the man... he had lost track of the name in the sea of strangers; he just remembered there was shock that a 'common archer' was in the final, and was more highly skilled than the nobles that had been trained every day of their lives. It had been at 150 metres that it became obvious Eragon was his better, all the others having fallen away before the 100 metre mark. The Rider would have complimented his opponent, but he had rushed off in a huff.

Later in the day, Eragon would curse himself for being distracted; if he had been paying closer attention, his elf-eyes would have caught sight of the missing piece of armour; that which would be the smaller knight's downfall.

Eragon's attention was pulled back to the present when the King roared at the knights to get on with the fighting, and he saw the two's horses trot to their respective ends where they were handed lances, and they rode; each horse thundering down the straight towards their opponent.

Eragon _cringed_ as he saw the newer Knight's technique; clearly he had no business being in this contest. Honour was one thing, but he should have backed out as soon as he was pit against The Mountain; Pride could get you killed if you combined it with idiocy.

And it did.

Some people; those who had little experience with death, would later remember the moment of impact as though it happened at half speed. The lance shattering against Ser Hugh's shoulder; shards exploding outwards as they were meant to, in order to prevent unnecessary injury. All except one of them. A single, long piece of wood had pierced the Mountain's target's neck, and blood flowed around the shard even as Ser Hugh fell to the ground in a heap.

As the crowd fell silent, following the screams of women around him, Eragon heard the gurgling of a man choking on his own blood. The poor fool had a quick, painful descent in to the embrace of the Stranger, and Eragon strongly suspected that, if the Mountain's head was not covered by his helm, there would be a smug look visible to all.

Men carted the corpse away quickly, and somebody shovelled dirt over the bloodstain; then they got on with the jousting.

As Eragon felt his gedwey sting; wanting to unleash hell on the monster of a man, he was vaguely aware of several girls being carted off in hysterics. The happy, innocent princes was one of them, and Sansa's friend Jane another. It, Eragon noted in the back of his mind, was slightly concerning that Sansa herself seemed largely unbothered by the man's death. He would be almost thankful when it hit the innocent future Queen later in the day. It was far too soon for the girl to be hardened by the politics in King's Landing, and he _was_ glad that it was just a simple curiosity that prevented the Stark daughter from reacting like her friend.

-()-()-()-()-

Idiots.

Did they not realise how bad an idea it was to over-indulge so much the day before a tourney? Granted, none of the jousters had been fool enough to drink more than they could handle, but Eragon could pick out dozens of faces in the crowd of gentry that looked ill; baking in the hot sun making their headaches much worse. At least a few of the knights were part of the melee later, as well.

Yet the fat king, who was more hungover than anyone else, would still win.

As much as Eragon hated it, he would have to let Robert win. The man would not accept that he was outclassed, and who knew what would happen to any man who dared eliminate the king? Even if Eragon was forgiven by the Baratheon man, his wife or son would likely take it as an opportunity to get back at the man who 'attacked' Joffrey.

And it was all the queen's fault. Cercei Lannister had _forbidden_ Robert from competing in the melee last night at the feast. What did she think the proud man's reaction to that would be?

It was a bad idea, anyway, in Eragon's opinion, for the king to fight. It was almost certain he would be drunk by the time he arrived, and even with his girth the bear of a man had a good deal more strength than most of the competition. With a war-hammer and enemies that dare not fight back, the drunkard could easily kill someone; and that was assuming that there was nobody with a grudge against him in the fight. In the free for all of the melee, anything could happen. Even the king could be felled in the frenzy.

Back to the events at hand, though.

Jaime Lannister had been knocked flying off his mount by the Hound, to the shock of the crowd. They had not expected the popular knight to be defeated by the... less than popular non-knight. Their amazement had been overpowered, however, by the amusement of Jaime Lannister's helm twisting 180 degrees on his head; leaving a backwards-facing lion head firmly wedged on his shoulders. It was quite the surprise to Eragon, as well, but the final was shaping up to be much more exciting than he'd predicted. If the Hound and the Mountain went up against each other, the outcome would be more meaningful than any other matchup. To them and to Eragon, who knew the story well. The Hound's subconscious was practically screaming, as his brother rode, the story of his being caught playing with Gregor's toy, before the mountain coldly pressed his little brother's face in to a flaming brazier.

Now, the Mountain and the knight of Flowers were side by side atop their horses. Ser Loras had just given a flower to Sansa Stark, and the girl had practically swooned at the prettiness of the man.

"Don't let the mountain hurt him," Sansa begged her father, as the two took their places at either end of the field. She was worried the knight would meet the same fate as Ser Hugh the day before. "He'd going to _die._" Sansa whispered to Eddard.

"Ser Loras rides well, don't worry." The Lord Stark reassured his daughter, as a horn rang through the air. For some reason, Eragon noticed, Clegane's horse seemed... agitated. As he glanced at the horse's thoughts, Eragon felt the humungous stallion's focus solely on the mare supporting Tyrell. Not a good sign for the Mountain.

The two horses leapt in to action; one with a thundering gallop and the other far more agile, and their master's readied their lances; each poised to strike their opponent cleanly, implying that all Loras could hope for was a draw, and that was unlikely. The Mountain was bigger, and had a longer reach; not to mention the weight and power that would be behind his strike that the Tyrell knight would be lacking.

Then, the black monstrosity that the Mountain sat upon shifted. Not massively so; not even enough for most people to notice, but enough to get the man riding him's attention. Losing focus on the match, Gregor Clegane's lance wandered slightly; and drifted away from his target just as the two reached the centre of the run.

The Tyrell's lance struck true, and the Mountain fell in a shower of wooden shards; crashing in to the ground with an echoing _thud_. The bigger they are the harder they fall.

It took Gregor Clegane a few moments to regain his senses; after which he got up with an incomprehensible roar, followed by him thrusting his hand out and barking over to his nervous squire.

"Sword!" The Mountain grunted, and his squire scrambled over with a massive greatsword for the massive man who wielded it. Taking the huge, two handed blade; a length that would be comical on anything short of Kull, had you asked Eragon previously, but that fit the 8 foot man perfectly, Gregor hefted it, and stepped forwards, towards his mount. In a single blow, the Horse's head was separated from its body, as his rider grunted.

Eragon flinched as he felt the Horse's life-force vanish unexpectedly, and observed shock run through the rest of the crowd as the Knight did not stop at beheading his steed. Demonstrating his strength again, Clegane gripped the nearest segment of the long fence; separating the two sides of the jousting track, and tore through it without any sign that it was difficult for him; the show of strength was furthered by the fact that the landed knight brandished his great sword with his unoccupied hand at the same time.

The knight of the flowers was as shocked as everyone else at this show, and barely had time for a hasty call of "sword" himself before the giant of a man was on him, his sword just barely blocked by the jousting shield Loras was carrying. Of course, this only delayed the inevitable, as Gregor's strength sent the smaller knight tumbling off his horse, and in to the dirt. The Tyrell heir scrambled away from the enraged Clegane brother, and successfully avoided two subsequent swings of the massive blade.

"Leave him be!" Before even Eragon could figure out what he should do; wanting to save the knight but having no clue as to _how_ to do it, the Hound had leapt in to action from the sidelines; his own two-handed blade meeting his older brother's as he snarled from beneath the hound-helm he was wearing. It was an odd sight; to see the Hound, who was a large man by anyone's standards, looking so _tiny_ in contrast to his unnaturally big brother.

The swords clashed, again and again, as the two struggled against each other; the Mountain holding the advantage in size and strength, and only being slightly outmatched in terms of speed, but enraged to the point that he was swinging the blade wildly against his brother's talented strikes and guards. If the Hound had chosen to, and it was strange to Eragon that he did not, he could have killed the man who mutilated him in a single blow; yet none of his strikes ventured anywhere near the Mountain's unprotected face. Nor could the Dragon Rider, currently sans dragon, sense whatever reasoning the Hound was using; the Mountain's rage was far too... loud for that.

Finally, the fight was put to a stop by the king realising it was him that had to speak up; having been watching with a morbid fascination as the two Cleganes clashed.

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" Robert Baratheon roared, standing from his comfortable seat. Gregor Clegane obviously lacked the common sense to obey, as he swung once again at his younger sibling's protected neck. The Hound dropped to a knee; in a sign of respect for Robert, and the balde passed thorough nought but air.

The Mountain stormed off in what Eragon could only describe as a huff, and the crowd parted before him; the Kingsguard obeying an order to let the behemoth leave and the rest of the crowd having the brains to do so lest they get their skulls crushed.

"I owe you my life, Ser." Loras Tyrell told the Hound, thankful. "The day is yours!" The man opted out of the final, and raised Sandor Clegane's arm in celebration.

"I'm no Knight." The Hound corrected; though he did not refuse the 40,000 gold dragons, Eragon noted in slight amusement. The Hound probably knew he'd have been unseated the same as his brother; whether or not the scarred man knew Loras' mare was in heat.

-()-()-()-

'How pathetic that the best melee fight of the tourney occurred in the joust." Eragon shook his head, as the round, iron shield on his left arm bounced off the skull of one of his opponents, and his blunt one handed sword knocked another's blade away from the fray; the tip resting against his throat a second later.

All around Eragon, men were lying on the ground in various states of consciousness; all thoroughly defeated. Stupidly, they, upon seeing the flaming sword wielded by Thoros of Myr, had decided they would fare best if they got as far away from the Red Priest as possible. Unfortunately, Eragon was on the other end of the field to Thoros, and had been caught in the fray of bodies as the majority of the competitors collided. He had not beaten all of them, of course. No, that would be unwise of him in front of the King; gods forbid he be ordered to join the Kingsguard or be a bodyguard for one of the golden-haired children of the king. He would far rather go in to exile than live in this steaming shit-pile of a city.

The man with Eragon's blade against his throat yielded quickly enough, and hurried off after Eragon waved him away. The Rider looked around; seeing where his next opponent would be, and found a large man charging him; standing nearly a foot taller than Eragon's 6-and-a-bit height. The man was holding a war-hammer; no doubt in an attempt to gain the support of his king, and had rather poor form as he swung the blunt weapon as Eragon's left side.

Stepping inside the man's reach, and dropping the dime-a-dozen sword, Eragon clenched his now free hand in to a fist, and punched out. Had he used his full strength, the knuckles would have gone through the man's flesh and bone; the plate armour that had been covering his gut now lying discarded after being dented by another's strike. Fortunately for the large man, the new-knight only used enough to wind him, and the man hunched over, coughing, only to be met by a steel-capped knee rising to meet his face.

This punch reminded him of one of the earliest lectures he'd received from Arya on how the leader of the Dragon Rider order had to behave. His previous solution to his hand's inability to tolerate his elven strength was 'too ugly' for the many noble functions he had to attend to ensure that his order was respected by the people running the country. Nasuada had lived a long life, but it barely breached a second century, and Eragon had to forge new links as others began clawing for the best deal in amongst the power vacuum the dark-skinned queen left.

To avoid _repulsing_ some of the nobles; ones he had to tolerate no matter how much they annoyed him, Eragon had to come up with a different solution to the problem. It wasn't that difficult to find a way to harden a significantly smaller portion of flesh when he had the time to study it for weeks on end, but it still irked him that he had to change for the sake of 'presenting himself properly' to a bunch of weak-minded fools. What would Roran have thought had he seen Eragon in the silks that apparently made him look the part?

Eragon left the man on the ground; groaning and clutching his broken nose, with only the advice to invest in a helm, and strode over to the more active part of the field. On his way, the Rider scooped up another sword; no different than his previous, plain steel blade.

Several knights had chosen to demonstrate bravery in the face of Thoros and one, who coincidentally was the only one left of these 'brave' men, was currently exchanging blows with the Priest. It was a shame none of the famed warriors of the court had pitted themselves against Eragon and Thoros in the melee. Few people were willing to enter both the melee and the Joust, however, and there was more honour, and gold, to be gained from the horseback sport.

Then again, the Priest may have been glad that those such as Jaime Lannister rarely competed against him. The man was skilled with his sword, for sure, but the fire raging on the blade was his main advantage against these others. This was shown best in the way he defeated his current opponent. His sword passed by the other man's helm; a harmless move for the majority of people, but _blinding_ when the wildfire flames were involved. Thoros' opponent backed away instinctively, and the flaming sword flashed; thudding against the man's helm before the red Priest kicked his legs out from under him, and the other was defeated.

Now it was only the two of them left on the field, and Eragon had no faith in the man's ability to put up a fight. Compared to the brilliant fire of Brisingr, the alight sword in front of him was rather unimpressive, and he certainly would not be intimidated by Thoros. One thing was sure; Eragon would never show arrogance enough to not bother with finding another shield, unlike the man in front of him. Apparently Thoros believed he had already won this fight. That would be his undoing. Not that he would have won otherwise.

Eragon stepped up to the other finalist, and raised his blade, as the Red Priest mirrored his movement. They circled, for show, once. Twice. Then the Red Priest lunged forwards, and the fight was done.

Eragon batted aside the flaming sword with the blade he'd picked up, and stepped forward with his circular shield raised. The Red Priest's lunge carried him closer to Eragon than he had expected, since the flaming sword would force almost anybody to take a step back lest they be burned. The red Priest had nothing to defend himself with against the edge of Eragon's shield that suddenly jabbed in to his stomach, and he fell to the floor retching as his armour dented inwards, and violently aggravated his gag reflex. Thoros was saved the humiliation of vomiting in front of an attentive crowd by Eragon's foot knocking against the helm; sending him in to unconsciousness.

-()-()-

40,000 gold dragons was a substantial amount, Eragon was well aware. Much more than many of the knights, who had inherited a massive amount of money for doing nothing, would be able to appreciate. He hadn't ever had so many of the coins before; even in Alagaesia, he was only really rich in the theoretical sense. A massive island, an estate that spanned an unbelievable length, belonged to the order. He had a lot of precious gems, too, and they'd be worth a kingdom in this land, had he brought more of them than his most sentimental gems. Namely Aren; left to him by his father, and the belt of Beloth the Wise; gifted to him by the Elves. Selling any of them was never an option; even if he had several times had to resort to pulling rare metals from the ground; something that took more energy than Eragon liked to expend, in order to trade for food during the time before he met the Starks.

But, even so, he did not like having the chest full of money here in the capitol. A city of thieves and whoremongers weren't exactly trustworthy folk, after all. Instead, Eddard had offered to send the chest up to Winterfell with one of the men; this particular man had a newborn son, and had jumped at the chance to return to his wife and child. Ned had not even asked him to give the money back; acknowledging that it would be better in Eragon's hands than the crown's. The man had been, as was becoming more and more common lately, stressed about his interactions with Robert, since the king did not take his job seriously enough for the morbid Stark, but overall had been in as good a mood as Eragon could expect; even _after_ a conversation with the Spider, one that Eragon did not care to glean the contents of; the Spider's mind was both difficult and unpleasant to read, Ned had congratulated Eragon on his performance and suggested moving his new-found wealth to the North. Even let Eragon give Abram the good news that he, and two others of his choosing, would be allowed to take a ship home

And yet, he could feel the conflict of Eddard Stark even from out here; the panic mixed with anger and disappointment was palpable for Eragon, even if it wouldn't be for others in the Lord Stark's employment. What on Earth could have happened in the past hours that turned the man's mood so... sour? And what did his good friend Robert have to do with it, that Ned was ranting at not knowing _who_ the king was anymore. Probably not that he was fat enough to be unrecognisable, as many people would mean. No, something had to have happened with... what?

Not the tourney. As much as Eddard didn't want it, and disapproved of the King's reckless spending, neither of the pair would have let an argument over finance escalate to this point.

The Queen? The councillors? After all, Ned was not fond of any of them; other than perhaps Barristan Selby and Renly, but neither was Robert.

Joffrey? The King's twisted son? No; Ned had more manners than to bring up the nature of Robert's eldest.

So what matters of state would they be passionate enough about to have a row like this? The king cared about... well, there was...

Ned cared about the North. The North, and honour. Robert wouldn't dare attack the North, or threaten the Northerners since they had remained loyal, even if there were rumours that Lady Catelyn had taken the Imp. The disliked son of Tywin Lannister in exchange for a rebellion from the largest of the Seven Kingdoms? Robert was not that dumb.

So it was a matter of honour. Something more than the conduct of the King, since the Barratheon man very rarely presented himself honourably by choice; his whoring was public knowledge. So Robert was going to do something worse.

But what?

"Come in, Eragon." Ned spoke, after the Rider knocked on the door. Eragon, perceptive, heard, and felt, the barely restrained frustration. As he turned to meet his 'guard', Ned sighed and Eragon saw that he had been packing everything he could in to a trunk. "I... have something to tell you." He said, hesitating slightly. "Bear in mind I _am not_ asking you to do anything.

"Today, I found out that Catelyn has taken the _Imp_. It was his knife, and she had every right to demand justice!" The man insisted, more passionate than Eragon could remember seeing him. "But that's not relevant, other than... later, later." Eddard shook his head, speaking to himself. "After I found this out, I went in search of the king, to explain the situation to him. You'll agree that this was the right course of action? Right. Anyway, as I was heading to the King's chamber, I got intercepted by a low ranked noble; he told me that I was being summoned to the Small Council."

"Summoned?" Eragon asked; weren't they too smart to _summon_ Lord Stark? "By whom?"

"The King." That was surprising, Eragon was aware. He hadn't ever heard of the King attending a Small council meeting. "Anyway, I obeyed, of course, and found the King in a poor mood." Ned looked seriously at Eragon. "Do you remember me mentioning the Targaryen siblings on the King's road? The children of Aerys that survived Tywin's attack?"

"Vaguely... Daenerys and... Visys? Viseries?"

"Viserys," Ned corrected. "The two are with a Dothraki horde; as _Jorah Mormont_ told Varys, and the Spider told Robert. The girl, Daenerys, has married Khal Drogo."

"And the King's concerned that the Dothraki might be a threat?" Eragon responded, with doubt in his tone. Everyone knew the Dothraki were afraid of the sea; superstitious about it, even. There was no way they would cross just because their Khal's foreign wife held a grudge against the King.

"He is, but there is a new... accelerant that's been introduced." Eddard confided, as his torrent of emotions crawled back to the surface. "The girl is pregnant with the Khal's child."

"Ah..." Eragon nodded sombrely. "Did Robert come up with it himself, or did one of the councillors suggest killing her?" The Lord wasn't surprised that Eragon deduced the problem, as this was the solution the rulers would come up with in response to the threat of a new Targaryen, and continued on.

"He didn't tell me, but the _King_ believes the babe to be a threat to the Kingdom. His hatred for the Targaryen line hasn't faded since the war, and he's projecting it on to the girl and her future child; as well as Viserys. There's been a Lordship offered to the man who brings the King their heads." Bad news. A Lordship was enough to turn most any man in to a murderer; the obvious exception being rare men as honourable as Lord Stark himself. It was starting to become clear what Eddard was _not _asking Eragon to do.

"It is rumoured that they are heading for the Dothraki capitol of Vas Dothrak currently; I would wager that _somebody_ would be willing to make an ill-advised attempt on the girl while they're staying there, in an attempt to undercut any of their competition, and this would even spare the Crown the trouble of giving them a Lordship since anybody dumb enough to do so would not make it out of the Horse-Lord city alive. But, if I was to try and protect the girl, I think that I'd send a theoretical somebody to Essos who could speak Dothraki, and have this person explain the situation to the Horde." If Eragon was to go, there would be very little risk; the Dothraki were not the type to punish people for their allegiance, if they were willing to help the Khalasar in such a significant way. Granted, he'd only be rewarded with a horse, which was pointless to him, but if Eragon were to leave the girl to be murdered, now that he'd been informed of the situation, he'd regret it.

"Hypothetically, I would warn my man about the dangers of getting on the wrong side of the Dothraki Horde, and that Jorah Mormont likely holds a grudge against me, meaning that it would , and that I would not be upset by someone delivering the King's justice, on my behalf, to the Slaver." Ned continued, as he turned to his desk and picked up a long box about the size, as Eragon was about to find out, to hold a long, elegant knife. "But the reason I called you here," Ned continued with the pretence. "Is to give you a gift. One that I believe will be of best use in your possession. Otherwise it will just stay here, as a constant reminder for me and me wife." He handed the box to the newly-knighted man, and was prevented from saying anything more by Jory speaking from the entrance of the Hand's office.

"My Lord, Lord Baelish is here for you." Eddard's eyes narrowed at the council member as the slender man walked in to the room, and he turned to Eragon once again.

"My daughters and I will be leaving as soon as possible, so you may want to let them know of your plans." Evidently, Ned Stark didn't trust Littlefinger, and Eragon was very glad. The slimy man made his skin crawl more than the Spider, and everyone, even Ned himself, knew that the man held on to certain feelgins for Lady Catelyn. Or would obsessions be the better term?

"Of course, my Lord. I wish you a good trip." Eragon nodded to both of the Lords as he was dismissed, and went in search of the two girls. Arya, at the least, would want to say goodbye; Sansa's moods were less predictable, but Eragon would feel bad if he didn't say goodbye to her. Plus, the Rider wasn't happy to be leaving them in this rat's nest, even if they would be leaving that same day.


	6. Back to King's Landing

**Here's another chapter of a Stranger's Fire. I hope you all enjoy it.**

**For the record, as I feel people might point it out in the next few chapters, Eragon will be slightly OC since he's been around for a hell of a lot longer than in Canon, and he's been living in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire for a good portion of that. Which is... harsh, as we've seen.**

**Please do Review/Follow/favourite.**

**-()-()-()-**

It was a good knife; the one that had passed through so many owners in the past few months. From the mystery hirer of the assassin, to the assassin himself, before going to Lord Stark and then, in an effort to give Eragon the best odds on his quest to prevent the King's soul from being damned, to the suddenly alert hybrid human that had frozen, stock still, in the middle of the street as his ears caught something _disturbing_.

The blade was about to prove its worth, as Eragon turned to the shady inn off the road.

It couldn't be true... surely. He would have heard about it before _now_, wouldn't he? Even in Essos, wouldn't this information be interesting enough for word to spread. And that wasn't taking in to account the doubt Eragon had for the news. There was no chance in hell that Ned would have betrayed his oldest friend, so why did the Rider get such a sinking feeling in his gut?

"_Say that again!_" Eragon barked, in an odd form of Low Valeryian; the language wasn't defined, and since he didn't grow up in any of the speaking-cities, he had not gained an intimate knowledge of one of the variations. The man who had been speaking; a mercenary, perhaps, glowered at him, affronted at the foreigner's rudeness.

"_Who are you?_" The man sneered at Eragon, as he laid a hand on the curved sword sat on his hip, and his two companions turned to face the approaching stranger. "_And why should I do anything that you ask of me, Westerosi scum?_" Eragon did, in fact, share more similarities in appearance with those of the southern Westerosi men, and these men had no reason to suspect they were wrong about his origins.

"_Who I am doesn't matter, and you'll do what I ask because it would be fool of you not to. I do not want to fight you, but I demand that you tell me what you were just speaking of!_" Eragon rested his own hand on the 'sword' on his right hip. In actuality, that was the unnamed dagger resting in the scabbard of a sword to give him a far faster draw than opponents would expect. He was well aware that this was out of character, but thought it was understandable that he was stressed. Not only was the news distressing, he was in poor condition, particularly his mental state, at the moment.

The cities in this land repulsed him. Calling themselves the 'free cities', and yet slaves were commonplace in Essos. Qohor, the closest city to this small village, was protected by an army of _unsullied_; if he was to visit the city, the _masters_ wouldn't likely survive his visit. Freedom was something he had long since learned to value above virtually all else; flying on the back of a dragon gave that belief to anybody, be they human, elf, dwarf or Urgal, and to take that away from someone for their birth state was _repulsive_. Yet they did not even consider it criminal in this land. As a matter of fact, that belief was one of the things that helped solidify Eragon's opinion of Eddard as a highly honourable man. Bringing us back to the issue at hand.

"_Let me guess, you're a part of the traitor's house? You seem the type._" As the man, now smirking arrogantly, stepped forward out of the relative shadow of the doorway, it became clear that he was a part of the Windblown mercenary company. Blue and white paint had been smeared across the front of his breastplate, and his mismatched armour and weaponry spoke of sell-sword companies' lack of uniformity. "_Oh, does that offend you?"_ The sell-sword grinned at his two companions, before continuing. "_Are you sad that your Lord is traitorous scum_?"

Eragon knew he had no reason to be angered by the bastard's comments; it didn't change the fact that the Starks were a noble house; as much as, if not more than, any other house in the Seven Kingdoms. His temper was also far less volatile than it had been in his youth, and this situation wasn't high stress enough for him, usually, to risk losing control.

If it had only been that _they_ were accusing somebody Eragon considered his friend, the Rider would walk away. Eragon firmly believed that, based on an eternity of dealing with arrogant slugs. But it _wasn't_ just them.

To say the king was dead... they wouldn't be so _pleased_ about it; one of their number's mind telling Eragon he had been sent over the narrow sea in exile explained the cause of their celebration, if they weren't _sure_. If Robert _was_ dead, Ned would be left to the mercy of the temperamental little shit of a prince and his mother. Cercei Lannister would have no problem killing Ned if she thought it would protect her rotten offspring, and what better way to do that than accuse him of treachery?

But Ned was able to handle himself. The Lord had made his peace with death, even, and Eragon knew he would discourage rash actions, such as returning to the Capitol with a vengeance, if it was his life at stake. For a retainer of the Starks to storm the city might bring the wrath of six kingdoms on to the North, and Eddard would not view his life as important enough to risk such action. As much as he hated it, Eragon wouldn't take such action for the life of his friend.

But the girls were there.

And Ned would forgive Eragon for doing what he could to save the two girls that he'd done everything he could to protect for more than five years, and that he had grown to care about as though they were his own family. If he did not do _something_, Sansa would be left to the mercy of her sadistic husband-to-be and his heartless mother, while Arya would be... what? Held hostage? Used to ensure Rob and Catelyn did not act up in the future?

So Eragon would find them. He _would_. Fuck the Targaryens. Surely the Dothraki could look after a Khalesi without needing _his_ help. Sure, he'd ordinarily do what he could to keep an innocent alive upon being made aware of the situation, but was he supposed to value a stranger's life above one of his own?

In retrospect, Eragon would know he'd handled the situation badly. It wasn't his fault, though, that one of the idiots had heard rumours about Sansa, and the girl's beauty, from a trader. Nor that the pervert projected such a detailed rendition of an... unpleasant conversation regarding her on to Eragon. No. He wouldn't shoulder all the blame, as something on his face told the three that this was going to dissolve in to a fight. Or maybe they already knew. But they certainly were willing to oblige this single stranger in his death wish.

The nearest; the man that had spoken, was the first to start his draw. He was too slow, and the Valyrian steel dagger severed the arteries in his throat before he registered that the blur that was Eragon had moved. His sword was forgotten, as the Windblown mercenary clutched at his bleeding throat; helplessly falling to his knees as blood flowed out of his neck like a crimson waterfall.

Eragon passed the blade to his left hand, as his right took hold of Brisingr, and kicked the second man; the pervert, away just as the third leapt away from a blue blur passing through the space that had previously been occupied by his skull. The man stumbled over a stone; a move that was the immediate cause of his demise, Eragon lunged forwards, and Brisingr stabbed out. The iron armour his target wore parted like a whore's legs as the Brightsteel blade's tip met the far weaker metal.

The, as yet unnamed, dagger finished him quickly; stabbing into the man's brain via his right eye, and Eragon yanked the blades out of the dead man, turning to face the other man and attacking his mind. There were rumours about Sell-Swords that he wanted confirmed; just to make him feel better about cutting three of them down.

And there it was. The three had _bonded_ on one of these occasions. After a battle, they had found some cowering women. _No_. Some _children_ cowering in a basement. The men hadn't shown any empathy for the girls, and Eragon would not show any for them.

The man scrambled to his feet, and Brisingr swept in a deadly sapphire arc; one that turned ruby at its half-way point as a trail of blood followed in Brisingr's path.

His worthless head fell to the ground with a _thud_, and Eragon wiped his prized blade, and the Valyrian knife; or should that be prized _blades_, on the fallen man's under-shirt. He had no need for it now, after all.

How odd his change was; from the time he was a child to now. So many lifetimes he had lived in Alagaesia, with Saphira with him every step of the way; bolstering him, and showing him what it was like to be in the mind of a _dragon_, and yet even as the head of the order, he had had trouble coming to terms with things like that he just did.. It was here, in the harsh land of Westeros, that he came to peace with Murtagh's actions. Now, he _understood_ his brother's mindset; that these... men, if they could be called that, needed to die. Capital punishment, as he had heard it be called by those disapproving, was... quick. Those with authority would always have command over their fellow man. Those with power had authority; and Eragon held more power than anyone else he had met in this world. He could end any one of their lives with a single word.

Saphira would be so proud of his epiphany.

In the shadow of a nearby building, a trio of kids waited; as soon as Eragon was gone, they would descend on the corpses like vultures; taking anything of worth they could get in a minute, before hiding once again and comparing their loot.

As he left; via the westernmost point of the village, Eragon noted that he'd have to avoid the roads, and travel at night as much as possible; bringing back an old memory of the time before he and Arya were any more than friends. Back in the time of Galbatorix.

-()-()-()-

The only source of amusement, which was minimal if he was honest, that Eragon had during the run to Pentos; where he would find a boat back to Blackwater Bay and the capitol and discreetly get a ride across the Narrow Sea, was the thought of how the Prince... the _King_ would be reacting to Eragon having gone missing. He had hated Eragon for the _assault_, and Joffrey didn't seem like the forgiving type. No doubt that hatred had festered, and grown, only to be denied as Eragon escaped his clutches. Not that he'd have rolled over if in King's Landing, but the brat wouldn't know that; people like him believed that they could rule the world, after all. It would never cross his mind that Eragon could kill him in a second if he was so inclined. Certainly not that there were thousands of people that _could_ and a handful that there was a good chance _would_. In Braavos, for example.

Eragon's feet drummed a steady rhythm as he ran across the plains of Essos; keeping as due-east course as he could, to reach the port of Pentos again, and find another boat to take him back to the capitol. And then, when he got there... well, who knew? He'd deal with what awaited him; preferably practising subtlety, even if he was aware that might not be an option. If he was to acknowledge that, upon his arrival in King's Landing, Brisingr would no doubt be bathed in more blood than the three Sellswords had provided, Eragon would feel compelled to come up with some other method to save Arya and Sansa. He didn't have time to waste on such a pointless pursuit; who knew how long the king had been dead? How long would the girls stay safe when _Joffrey_ Baratheon took the throne of his father? Eragon was willing to assume they were already in danger, if it would allow him to arrive, through a reckless abandon he rarely displayed when it came to his preternatural abilities, even an hour earlier than otherwise.

As he ran, Eragon's mind raced; how much control would Cercei have over her brat? The woman was far from pleasant, but she was not _dumb_. None of the Lannisters were, even if the twins struggled to utilise the cold logic of Tywin and the Imp. Eddard would be better suited on the Wall; surely Cercei would realise that. Even if she didn't, the Spider would point it out, wouldn't he? So Ned would be sent to serve alongside Jon; he wouldn't be killed. Eragon tried ever so hard to convince himself of this. He had no reason to believe otherwise.

But he could not slow his pace.

No matter how often he reminded himself of this argument, Eragon _could_ _not_ stop running. Half of the people in King's Landing were easy to understand, and therefore predict. These people, Eragon was unconcerned about; only Baelish had any reason to want Ned gone, and his… infatuation with Catelyn was not enough for him to risk his neck by having one of the most popular lords in the land killed. The ones he _couldn't_ predict were his bigger worry. Especially since one of them was _on _the Iron Throne. Joffrey could have Ned killed on a whim, and the mood may well take the little shit at any moment. Then, Ilyn Payne would step up to Eddard, and silently lop off his head.

The disgusting prince wouldn't even wield the sword himself.

And so, the Dragon Rider; sans dragon, sped up; the steady _thud_, _thud_, _thud_ of his feet drumming a faster beat, as even his pulse began to thump along as he caught sight of a no-name village on the outskirts of Narvos.

Half way to Pentos. From there, he would board a ship, and pray that he'd reach King's landing in time.

He couldn't stop running.

-()-()-()-

How he missed Saphira in this moment.

Of course, her absence was a constant, agonising hole in his heart, but he could... _cope_, normally. It had gotten to the point that he was able to almost ignore the part of him that was missing, even if it was never truly out of his mind. Now, though? Now it wasn't the pain of their separation that was irritating him. It was the ship he was travelling aboard.

Was the trip to Essos really this tedious? Was it just the deadline he had that made the time pass more slowly, or had he managed to pick the slowest ship in all the world? Because he was seriously considering diving overboard and _swimming_ the rest of the way. At least then it would feel like he was doing something. Or maybe he could simply whisper _wind_ in the Ancient language, and propel the ship at a more reasonable pace; even if it would wreak havoc on the spoilt boy who was loudly complaining about queasiness brought on by the rocking motions of the slow ship. As long as the whiny child didn't vomit on him, Eragon could not care less about his stomach pains.

"How long until we arrive, mother?" Speak of the devil, and he will make a noise like nails on a blackboard. Eragon cringed at the mother's reply; clearly she doted on her child, and was unable to see how throwing him overboard would benefit everybody on board.

"Not too long now, sweetie," She replied, directing a smile at the small boy. "We aren't any more than two hours away now."

"_Hours_? Urgh." He stomped off in a huff, and Eragon was glad to see him go. Even more so when his mother followed.

Two hours. He would be there soon, but would it be quick enough? Eragon peered up at the sky, where the sun as just reaching its peak, and turned to the ship's bow with an air of anxiety about him.

-()()—

After the sea breeze; clean, refreshing air, the stink of King's Landing was especially potent to Eragon. That it was '_yucky_' was one of the first things he and the spoilt brat had agreed on during the journey.

But Eragon could ignore it. He had to ignore it, since he didn't have someone to comment on it _to._ With that thought, the Rider's brow creased. No doubt his friends from Ned's guard were dead. There was no reason for the new king, or queen regent, to keep them alive. It was sad to think of, but Eragon was well aware of the fact that Arya, and possibly Sansa; though the girl was not as close to the men as her sister, would be taking it harder that him. Humans died, and Eragon had made his peace with that even if he was saddened by the thought. Arya would not have had time to reach that conclusion yet; though the fate of her friends would begin to teach her the harsh lesson.

Gold Cloaks. Eragon spotted some of the city watch lingering around the docks, and narrowed his eyes. He should avoid the guards, since he was recognisable, and the king hated him. They may well be on watch, and the subsequent commotion would attract far too much attention for Eragon to reach the Red Keep with any semblance of stealth.

As the others on the ship approached the Port side of the boat; where they would disembark, Eragon backed away, and glanced around the immediate vicinity. Nothing he could use.

"_Jierda_." Eragon whispered, as he pressed his palm against the leather of his tunic, and focused on the boards beneath one of the Gold Cloaks.

With a panicked yell and a splash, the attention of everyone in the area was pulled to the city watch, and the coast was clear for Eragon's next step.

Well, his next several steps.

While the run up was unnecessary, it allowed Eragon to leap the gap between the boat and the dock; covering the four foot gap with a single, larger bound after the smaller steps preceding it. The soft thud of him landing in a roll was ignored by the Gold Cloaks, even though he was well aware that someone else would have noticed it. No doubt they'd call out quickly enough, to alert the guards, but Eragon wouldn't be around to hear it, as he was back on his feet and darting through the crowd a second later.

Eragon moved through the bustling group quickly, brushing past the citizens of the lower districts as he evaded the guards who may, or may not, have been following him. As always, Flea Bottom was unsettling, and he was happy to rush through the city. How strange it was, that nobody looked twice at the man running through their midsts; crime was so common in the slums. He ducked in to a cramped, empty alleyway, and waited for the guards to appear.

They didn't, and Eragon waited some more before reaching the conclusion that there would not be any of the city watch coming after him; either they didn't think that he was worth pursuing, over helping their fellow, or he had lost them in the lower parts of the city. He didn't know which was the case, and honestly didn't care.

Stepping out of the opposite end to the alley he had entered; to ensure nobody would be looking for the fleeing man, whether or not they would care about his intentions, Eragon was painfully aware of his unique appearance and the attention it attracted down in these slums. More than even the most pampered of Lords, Eragon's look screamed that he was different from the regular people of the kingdom. Had he had the foresight, the Rider would have altered the structure of his face before he stepped off the boat; a trick he had learned from Arya, but, alas, he did not and so he would have to put up with the stares.

With that in mind, and the desire to get away from the interest as soon as possible, Eragon walked briskly east; the Red Keep visible even from his place half a city away.

-()_()-

He was too late.

Maybe it was stupid of him; to hope he could save Ned. But, nonetheless, Eragon cursed himself, and his luck.

There were very few words that Eragon could use to describe this situation.

Well, that wasn't true. There were very few words he could use in this situation, while there was a group of small children next to him, and not feel guilty.

Or that wouldn't betray his magic.

Or that wouldn't set the Goldcloaks; watching the jeering crowd to ensure nobody caused too much of a scene, on him in an instant for badmouthing the royal family.

If only he had been here... he could have...

What? What could he have done?

What would he have been willing to do?

The girls were not up there. And he had no doubt that each and every one of the Stark guard would have been given quick deaths, that he would not have been able to prevent as they were caught unaware by Lannister men. And the few females that would have been killed, he never would have thought to protect. Clearly the blonde bastards had very little honour.

Eragon refused to count them. The heads were numerous... far too many for him to look at without acting. He focused, instead, on the most significant of them.

In death, Eddard commanded a far different sort of attention to the respect people gave him in life. It was... difficult for Eragon, and anyone else that would have known him, to see him like this. Flesh beginning to rot, and eyes blank as they stared, accusingly, at the crowd below.

Even if he could have done nothing for Ned, Eragon _should_ have been there. At the very least, seeing Eragon there would have given Ned some meagre reassurance that the girls would be safe, and the Rider would have been able to gleam his last wishes from his mind in the moments before Ilyn Payne swung the blade.

_Ice_, if Eragon was not mistaken. That was what he gleamed from the renditions of the citizens around him, retelling the moment Eddard _confessed _his _crimes_. What an insult to House Stark, for Eddard to be killed by their ancestral blade. The Lannisters truly were bastards.

Bastards that Eragon fully intended to take revenge on, on behalf of the family he served.

There was a question, though. Did he still serve them? Eragon had only gone in to their service for the honour Eddard showed, and now Ned was gone. Should he continue to serve? Under Rob?

A decision for a later date.

Currently, he had more pressing concerns. For example; should he remove Sansa from the Red Keep? Would she be safer there? Because the Lannisters would not dare hurt the only Stark they had; a fact that the higher ups in the Lannister men's ranks kindly told him. Not of their own accord of course; but in a more trustworthy way.

Eragon was certain the girl would be unhappy with him for the next months, as well. Perhaps it would be better to come back for her at a later date, then.

And how, exactly, would he retrieve Ice?


	7. And out of it Again

**Hello again. Here is another chapter of Stranger's Fire.**

**One thing before you read it; I've messed with the time line a tiny bit in this chapter but bear in mind George R.R Martin himself has said everything that happens isn't necessarily chronological, so this isn't a stretch.**

**I hope you all enjoy. If you do, please express your interest through Reviews, Favourites and Follows.**

**Without further delay... here you go.**

**-()-()-()-**

It had been a long time since Eragon did this. Infiltration was easy for him, of course, but there was little reason for him to do so in this land. It was lucky that he hadn't lost his edge.

Or was it because the guards of the Red Keep were pathetic? There really wasn't any way to say for sure. Either way, he'd reached the armoury with little difficulty, and found the first of his objectives. Ice struck an intimidating figure, resting on the wall. It was certainly taller than Eragon and, while he did not favour such large swords, Eragon knew it was one of the finest blades he had ever seen. Valyrian steel always made fantastic weapons.

As he neared the massive weapon, Eragon was annoyed to feel somebody approaching. Backing away, he glanced around the room, and stepped behind a full-to-bursting weapon-shelf and raised his hand; fingers splayed. It would be easy to knock whoever this was out, and then continue about his business.

Then, he recognised the disturbed mind, and anger spread through the Rider before he had a chance to calm himself. Not that he tried all that hard to stop himself, since the only recipient of his fury would be the approaching man.

Ilyn Payne stepped quietly in to the room, and made a beeline for the wall Eragon had just been facing. As he neared the greatsword, the King's executioner gained the first smile Eragon had seen him wear. The man raised his right hand and ran a finger down the flat of the Valyrian steel, almost... _lovingly_. Eragon brushed against his mind, and found the reason why. Payne was reminiscing about the ease with which Ice cut through its previous master's neck; the sharp edge cutting through bone and tendons with unbelievable ease.

If he had had a tongue, Ilyn may well have started singing to the magnificent blade with the soft songs a mother used to sooth her babe, instead of settling for the mental praise; he was a disturbing man, as almost anyone could see, but only Eragon could _hear_ the deranged tune of the King's _Justice_'s mind. He and Joffrey would have been good friends.

Key word being _would_.

Because the silent man would not make it out of this room alive.

"_Snida_." Of course, the executioner did not have time to turn before an invisible blade slashed down his back, and blood sprayed from the man. He did, however, manage to twist while falling forwards in order to land, back first, against the wall while facing his attacker. Usually expressionless eyes widened in fear as Ilyn saw one of Eddard's most trusted men stood over him; an odd mark on his palm glowing brightly. Eragon had removed his right glove for the sake of scaring the man he was about to kill, and saw that it had been achieved as the tongue-less man mouthed the word _sorcerer_; giving him an eyeful of the stump inside his mouth.

"I assume you know why I am doing this, but, to clarify, I am delivering a far more deserving death than that of Eddard Stark's. Clearly the gods want your life to end, or they would not have given you such horrid luck as to encounter me on this day. Find comfort in the fact that you wont feel a _thing_." Eragon watched the silent man slide down the wall; leaving a crimson streak, and lower his head. Ilyn Payne knew that his time was up; the wound on his back alone would expel his blood too soon for him to find help, and Eragon respected that he did not beg. Begging wouldn't have been any use to the man as Eragon whispered one more word, and the life fled the King's Justice's body.

Eragon took a hold of Ice; strapping the greatsword across his back, and soon left the castle; only taking a detour to drop off one more gift, and pick up two more things, before he escaped.

-()-

Later that night, Sansa found the letter Eragon had left for her, and found a relieved, if slightly teary, smile lighting up her face as she discovered the author, in contrast to the depression that had been all she'd known since her father's death. It was understandable that the girl had long harboured a crush on her father's most noble man for as long as she could remember; he personified all of what she thought her perfect man would be.

_Sansa,_

_I do not have much time; I have left a present for Joffrey and the Queen in the armoury that will, no doubt, be discovered soon. I hope that it will give you some meagre comfort, for it will not give any to the King._

_I must apologise; what I am going to do for the coming months will not be pleasant in any way, shape or form. I cannot bring you with me, or I am afraid you would be at great risk. I will return for you _soon_. Do not, for a moment, think that I've forgotten about you. Nor your family. As soon as I know how to proceed, I'll bring you to your mother or brother. In the meantime, I have left something in under your pillow for you. To call me back, simply break the strap and I will know that you need me, and will be in King's Landing as soon as I possibly can._

_Don't be afraid, though. The Lannisters are many things, but they are not idiots. You are the only Stark they have, and they would not dare hurt you._

_Eragon._

_One last thing._

_If Lady had been left here, Joffrey would have her killed for revenge against Nymeria for supposedly attacking him. She, too, will be waiting for you, so I hope you can forgive me for taking her with me._

-()-()-

This... was going to suck.

If Eragon thought getting _in_ to the city was tough, he really hadn't predicted how hard it would be to get _out_ of the city with a Valyrian Steel greatsword slung across his back, and two Direwolves on his heels.

He had contemplated any number of escape routes. He could go down through the old tunnels of the Red Keep; that would take him out to the river, and he and the wolves could swim, but it'd also require going back inside, after the alarm had been raised post-finding of Ilyn Payne, and risking discovery.

He could make a run for it; and would have a decent chance of escape since everyone would get out of his way, but the City Watch would easily send word to simply close the gates and the wolves would be trapped. _They_ couldn't scale the walls.

So, instead, he would... he would...

Well, he'd forgo any pretence of being an ordinary human and _hope_ that nobody was there to see.

With that in mind, he and the wolves sneaked in to a side alley, as close to the Red Keep as possible, and followed the wall line. Or, more specifically, Eragon followed the outer wall and the Direwolves followed him. Reaching a distance from the Red Keep that he figured was out of the way enough to avoid having a random citizen stumble upon him and the canines, and that he did not have to travel too far, letting the Gold Cloaks be given too long to search for him.

Stepping to the wall, Eragon drew Brisingr and nudged the minds of the wolves; telling them to keep watch for him. Of course, they did; not questioning why they suddenly knew to do so.

Eragon pressed the tip of his blade against the wall, and pushed while he whispered his blade's name. The flaming blade quickly disappeared up to the hilt, and Eragon began the process of cutting a whole in the brick. He made slow, but sure, progress until there was the outline of a hole big enough for him, and therefore Lady and Nymeria, to escape. Stepping back, he sheathed the sapphire blade before pressing his shoulder against the brick and _heaving_.

With a whistle, the two wolves followed him through and Eragon took a hold of the large slab of brick; his thick gloves proving quite useful as he did. It was heavy, but he managed to push it back upright and press it back in to the large hole. He removed his right glove, and pressed the Gedwey Ignasia against the rock. It was not necessary, but he had ruined a pair of gloves before by accidentally including them in the spell through absent-mindedness. He'd need these gloves for the foreseeable future.

"_Gath._" He whispered, and the stone melded together.

Nymeria nudged Eragon, concerned, as he crouched and sucked in a few breaths; the wall was thick, and it had winded him somewhat to reseal the hole. Eragon reassured her with a scratch behind the ears, and slowly stood.

"Come," The Rider said, as he began the trek to safer ground. Arya was missing, and he had only a vague idea where would she be. It was safe to assume she would head North, since that was the direction both to her home and to everyone she knew; excluding Eragon, who had been across the narrow sea, and Sansa, who her relationship with was strained, at best.

So how would she be able to travel?

Arya would know that it was fool to travel as a girl, and even more as a noble, in strange lands. So she would, presumably, be posing as a boy.

Syrio Forel had died, so that meant she did not have a water-dancer to protect her; a fact that Eragon was irritated by. She would have to be cautious, or find another method of assuring safety.

None of the Stark family guard had survived to help her, so... a boat? That would make sense if the Queen had not had eyes watching the docks since Ned had died, and Arya did not have Eragon's magic to cause a distraction. Nor did she have coin to pay for a boat.

She wouldn't be able to handle a full-grown horse; nor would she be able to steal one with ease. A pony, or the like, wouldn't make the trip North; Arya would know this, and would refrain from taking one for that reason.

So how would she travel?

That was a question that plagued Eragon until he, and his canine companions, settled down for the night, and occupied his waking-dreams through the dark. He needed _some_ direction, or there was no reason to head North before moving on to a more long-term plan.

What would that plan be? He was not sure, just yet, but it centred around Joffrey and, more specifically, putting somebody more worthy on the throne.

But that was not important just yet, so Eragon postponed that particular brainstorm.

The next morning found two wolves staring expectantly at Eragon; wanting to have some hint of what they would be doing in the day. At the same time, Eragon was staring back at the two with a confused frown on his face.

There was _something_ he was missing. Something related to the wolves that was _just_ out of reach.

_Ghost_.

_Jon_.

The Night's Watch.

-()-()-()-

It was not long before Eragon found the trail of the Night's Watch. Well, the recruits of the Knight's Watch, anyway. They'd be members soon, presumably, but not just yet.

It wasn't surprising that he found the tracks so easily. Such a large group would be easy to follow even if they were trained. The ragtag group stood no chance of evasion. Not that they'd be _trying_ to stay hidden.

It also did not take long for him to catch up to them. Even with Ice, which was very cumbersome, he could run as fast as any horse, and the wolves were able to run alongside him happily for the few miles he needed to cover. Unfortunately, he soon had to join up with a main road. He instructed the Direwolves to keep pace with him in the trees on the side, and draped his tunic over as much of Ice as he could, including the hilt; leaving him a muscular man, in an undershirt, with a long, thin package in his arms. Not the most subtle, but it was more inconspicuous than being discovered in the forest with a Valyrian greatsword.

Walking quickly, Eragon pursued Arya and her companions for a good few hours; not being able to utilise his own speed. To pass the time, he began checking the minds of the new recruits; it wouldn't do to have somebody stab him in the back as he travelled with them. Yes, he would travel with them for a time, since he was loathe to just scoop Arya up and run North. Yet again, he didn't want to be too easy to spot. A party of four consisting of a girl, two wolves, and a man faster than said wolves would draw copious amounts of attention their way.

First, Eragon touched against the Night's Watchman's mind. Yoren was... interesting, if brash, and Eragon saw that he was the one who saved Arya, and was keeping her safe. He owed the man for that.

There were several kids that didn't give much interest to him, other than one who felt rather rotten; though that may have been because he was one of the ones who had bullied 'Arry when Arya first joined the group, and was the more slimy of the two. The other one, called Hot Pie even in his own mind, was just a coward that wanted to fit in and so turned to bullying.

Gendry, however, Eragon recognised. Not his name, and not the appearance he gleamed from the others' eyes, but in the feel of his mind. It was Robert's bastard that served in a blacksmith; who Eddard had visited while Eragon waited outside. Curious.

Then, there were the three he paid special attention to. The ones that currently lived in the cage, after living in the dungeons of King's Landing. Two of them, he would likely have killed then and there, rather than leave them around Arya for any longer, had the Crows not been known for being able to beat such unpleasant natures out of their new recruits and turning them in to respectable men of the Watch. They were disgusting people; a pair of rapists and murderers that would not think twice about doing the same to a girl of Arya's age and position.

The third, on the other hand, was one of the people in this world Eragon held respect for. He did not upon arriving in this land, of course; the Rider had considered Faceless Men to be little more than hired killers. But he'd met a few in his time, and found them... oddly honourable. Not in the traditional sense, but they had a policy Eragon found he agreed with. They would create their own code; which made far more sense to Eragon that blindly following one that was created generations hence by some dusty old man, and would never defy those ethics. Not to mention the fact that their skills were undeniable; more talented killers than he'd met in this world or his own, if you excluded those, like Eragon, who could wield magic. That was a pretty serious advantage, after all.

Not that Eragon would refrain from using this advantage against Jaqen H'ghar if it turned out the man was an enemy; and he could not tell, since Eragon had so much difficulty discerning the thoughts of anybody in his order.

Shifting Ice's weight, Eragon began a jog; he was very near their latest camp, and very much wanted to catch Arya soon. Not a good idea to leave a fugitive girl with a bunch of guys who would sell her out before the Arya could tell them where to go.

He sensed anticipation from Nymeria as they neared the camp, and could barely stop her from tearing off to reunite with her mistress; who's scent she had caught by this point. The group probably wouldn't react all that well to a rather large wolf suddenly appearing in their camp and heading straight for the smallest of their number.

-()-()-()-

The Faceless Man, that Eragon had moments before been observing, watched the boy-dressed-girl walk away from him, and his companions, with some interest. Bravery of that sort was rare, because it was ill advised in a world of so many dangers. If she was left to her own devices, it would get the girl killed, but Jaqen had a hunch that his god was showing him the not-boy for a reason. A new recruit for his own order, perhaps.

The girl walked away with the blacksmith-boy, and out of Jaqen's range of hearing just as another thing of interest presented itself, as one of his companions grumbled about little-shits and was ignored by Jaqen.

The Gold Cloaks were not this thing. No, the thing was what was suddenly lurking in the woods behind him; a very low rumble turning his head, for him to find a pair of wolves looking back at him. They were a large breed; he could see this even from his distance, that came with his cage, and may have presented a threat to be feared for many men. Even so, they, too, were not what inspired his interest.

There was a man stood between the beasts, with a greatsword slung across his back. Jaqen's eyes were excellent, but he could not be sure of the man's identity. Though, if he was right about the hidden person's identity, it would be incorrect to label him such.

He did not believe the one-god would set him a task as difficult as recruiting that-one to his order, but it would be wise to make the attempt. The god of death would be pleased to have a servant in the form one of the few that could defy him.

-()-(_)(_)-()-

The Gold Cloaks left in a hurry, much to Eragon's relief, and the camp went back about their business. He had wondered why they would be searching for Robert's bastard, and had almost vomited as he discovered the reason. The two had blood on their hands; one of them of a boy no older than 12, and he certainly would not shed a tear over their deaths, but what made Eragon sick was what the quieter of the two had witnessed. He had been in LittleFinger's brothel as a squadron of fellow Gold Cloaks entered in search of bastards the right age, and saw what their commander had done. He had killed a _babe_; still on its mother's milk, and Eragon added Janos Slynt to the list of men that he would see dead before long.

With a simple gesture to the wolves next to him; letting them know to wait for now, Eragon walked in to the camp without further delay. Of course, he drew attention as he did; that would have been true of any stranger, let alone one with a huge sword on his back, but the Rider ignored it as he headed for the other side of the makeshift structure where Arya and the Knight's Watchmen resided.

"Hey," Gendry nudged the girl, who was not aware he knew her as such, in front of him and pointed at the newcomer. "Who do you think that is?" As Arya turned, the Blacksmith-apprentice was startled to hear a shocked gasp come from her an instant before the smaller figure was off like a shot. "Arry?" The bigger boy called futilely after her, in a confused tone.

That confusion wasn't helped any as he watched the girl fly at the strange man, and said man catch her with ease, in a hug, as 'Arry' buried her face in his chest.

Why was she crying?

"Hey, sweet girl." Eragon murmured, as he hugged the uncharacteristically distraught girl and lowered himself to the floor so her legs were not dangling. "You're okay," The Rider whispered soothingly. "You're okay."

What the girl said in response, Eragon could not be sure, but he thought he heard the word _father_, and so settled on letting Arya cry it out. The girl needed that, Eragon was certain.

Honestly, he could not say what happened for the rest of the day, other than that Arya fell asleep against him; she had, evidently, been holding in the distress of seeing her father's execution, quite effectively, in order to hide in plain sight from the boys with her. Eragon spoke briefly with Yoren, who recognised him and welcomed him as long as he kept out of sight should the Gold Cloaks return. The Rider sensed that he was thinking hard on whether it would be possible to recruit the talented knight to the Wall, and respected the man's drive even if there was no chance of him succeeding, when so much was about to happen in the South. He would be loath to stay in the North in this time.

He also had an almost-conversation with the caged Faceless Man, as both communicated silently that a true conversation between the two would have to occur sooner rather than later. Later that night, Arya was leaning against her Direwolf in the clutches of sleep; not registering that Nymeria was here just yet, and Eragon was in his sleeping-state between her and Lady; the Rider and Direwolf forming quite the barrier between the Stark girl and the rest of Yoren's recruits. It would be tough to explain that to the others in the morning, but the thought was, quite suddenly ripped from his waking-dreams as something incredible, and unfortunate, happened.

"More than a _century_ of decent fortune has bought me _this_?" Eragon hissed to the sky; in an angry impression of a prayer. "You've just decided that I need to be reminded things can go to shit at a moments notice by piling _all_ of it on top of me at once?"

Once upon a time, he would have been thrilled to hear of this. It would have given him what he had lacked ever since he'd been sent to this land; _direction_. Now, though? _Now_ there was too much going on even before this! He had to protect the Stark girl next to him. He had to help Rob, and the rest of the North, get revenge for Ned's death. He had to be rid of the rotten king.

But _how_, in the name of every fucking god he could think of; in both this world and Alagaesia, was he supposed to ignore _this_?

How could he ignore _dragons_?

-()-()-()-

_Snida_\- _Cut_

_Gath_\- _Unite. _


	8. Leaving the Night's Watch

**Here's another chapter, I hope you all enjoy it, and let me know.**

**Just to let you know, if I'm delayed in updating in the immediate future, since exams are starting for me on Friday that I should ****_really_**** care about, even if I have a lot of difficulty finding any motivation for them, it in no way means I'm giving up on this, or any, story.**

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**-()-()-()-**

"G'morning, Eragon." Arya mumbled in to Eragon's chest as the Rider woke. Apparently, at some point in the night, the Stark girl had rolled away from Nimeria, and towards her human protector. Eragon was a little uncomfortable about this manner of waking, simply because he wasn't used to such intimacy, but it was reassuring that she was so trusting of him.

"Time to get up, little Lady." Eragon nudged her off him, and stood in to a crouch; checking the location of everyone else in the encampment. The cage, of course, still held the three criminals, and the area around them was entirely clear; Yoren had warned everyone to stay away whenever possible. A good move, given that two of the three were despicable and the other was a highly trained killer. Said assassin met Eragon's eyes with a curious look, and Jaqen H'Ghar eventually nodded once to the long-lived man. Yoren was up, and sharpening his sword next to the sleeping recruits. Not a pleasant way to wake in the morning, but expected from the harsh man of the Watch. "There's work to be done."

"Work?" Arya rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "What kind of work?"

"For you, it would be helping around camp. For me, it'll be discussing your future with Yoren, and then making some preparations."

"Future?" Arya repeated, in a worried tone.

"I didn't mean to sound stern, Arya." Eragon smiled kindly. "Just another blasted variable's been introduced that makes me want to hasten whatever happens as much as possible."

"Um... what other variable?" She wondered.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, little Lady. Only thing is that I may take you and ride ahead of this... party; I'd hate to take too long dawdling and have something more happen. I assume you'd like to be with Rob and your Lady mother anyway, no?" Eragon asked the younger Stark girl. "What else would you be heading north for? You couldn't stay on the wall, but seeing you again would take a great weight off your brother and mother's shoulders."

"Yes please," The girl gave a small smile to Eragon and stood; ruffling her short hair as she did. Nymeria, and Lady, stood along with her and the girl's wolf nuzzled her. "Oh! I never said hello to you yesterday, did I girl?" Arya knelt down next to the wolf, so that it stood as tall as her, and wrapped her arms around Nymeria's neck. With a nudge of his mind, Lady was compelled to stay with the Stark girl, as well, and Eragon ventured in to the centre of the camp. Unfortunately, the Rider could not have one of the conversations he meant to engage in when two murderers were within earshot, but Yoren was a safer option, and more immediate concern, currently anyway.

"I owe you thanks," Eragon stopped next to the stern Night's Watchman. "More than I can give; for protecting Arya when you did not need to." He said this in a hushed tone. It would be a bad idea to let the recruits know Arya was here, for the simple reason that trading that piece of information for a pardon would be entirely plausible.

"If its more than you can give, there must be a way to balance the scales." Yoren continued sharpening his sword; not pausing more than a second.

"I'm not joining the Watch. Sorry, but I've got things to do south of the Wall." Eragon grinned. "But that doesn't take away from my thanks."

"How did you know I was going to ask _that_?"

"What else would you ask? You're about as loyal as any of the Night's Watch and, not to sound arrogant, I would be an asset to your... order. You've seen me fight, or at least heard rumours about my fighting, and so know this." Eragon shrugged.

"Bah. It is no matter matter anyway. I respected Lord Eddard; that's why I helped his daughter." Yoren explained. "No need for a reward, lad. Just make sure you keep 'er safe when you head on north."

"Head north?" Eragon repeated. "Why d'you think I'll be going north? There's safety in numbers, after all."

"Safety _of a sort_, but it's no place for a Lord's daughter. She shouldn't be in much danger from things outside the camp; any man of the Watch is worth a dozen footsoldiers down here , but from _inside? _I wouldn't trust a single one of these fuckers as far as I can spit, and I doubt you'd be any more inclined to. Even with you and the wolves, it's a pointless risk to take." Eragon's nod was all the answer Yoren needed to affirm his assumption.

"Well," Eragon began with a frown. "I have one more favour to ask, if it's okay." The man would need to look after Arya for the day, if Eragon's plan was to come to fruition.

-()()-

The tavern wasn't too far away from the recruits' camp, luckily for Eragon, and so he could be there and back within the day; horse in tow. In the meantime, he did not have to hide his troubled mind. Nature itself was singing of the birth of dragons; such an incredible event was easy for someone to hear of; if they only knew to listen. Difficult to ignore.

Dragons or no, he couldn't head back over the narrow sea just yet. Both because of the fact that he had duties here, and because they weren't yet significant enough for Eragon to make contact. They were too young. If they were of the same species as Saphira, and her kind, then he'd eventually be able to speak to them. However many of them there were.

Would they have Riders? Would they be bonded dragons, or wild? He would bet wild, but, even so, they were a good sign to Eragon because... well, because he was excited about meeting some more dragons; he had learn to value them as much as the elves always had. That, and they would, hopefully, remind him of Saphira.

Eragon was still wondering over these questions when he reached the tavern. It had taken a good few hours, and he had left after midday. Now, he would have to observe; the horse would have to be of highest stock, after all, or it would never accept the wolves' presence even with Eragon's coaxing.

And so Eragon was crouched in the treeline of a nearby woods; observing the tethered horses with a frown. One _might_ do, though Eragon held no particular confidence in it, and the others were simply average, if not less than able, so the Rider chose to wait a while in order to see if he had better luck than recent times suggested.

He was thankful that the gods cut him some slack today. Within two hours, a red dressed soldier arrived on a pale grey warhorse. While the Lannister man atop the steed held little worth, the animal itself was as intelligent as any he had met; only slightly dumber than Lady and Nimeria, and a horse had no right to be as intelligent as a direwolf; the predators were infused with a strange form of magic, being descended from creatures bathed in the energies, after all.

They weren't very security conscious regarding their only source of transport, Eragon noted, as he had before, with a smirk as he untied the horse from the post it had been stood next to and ran a hand down the side of its neck before coaxing it away from the inn with a nudge of his mind. The horse was content to follow; holding no loyalty to the man who had recently purchased him, and who did not know the first thing about winning his animal over.

Because of this, it only took a few minutes to be out of sight of the building, and safely away from the inn. It would be a shame to be caught; Eragon would have to cause a serious commotion to escape, and that would be ill advised so close to the Night's Watch camp. Who knows whether somebody would make the connection; particularly since two of the Lannisters had impressive intellects.

But the ability to discover the existence of Eragon, and through him Arya, was irrelevant if nobody caught sight of him; Eragon had a rather unique appearance and that was what would lead Tywin, or Tyrion, to guessing his identity. Any of the men of the Watch could provide a detailed description of their resident knight, and the Lannister father would have heard about the Rider from men serving under the Lannister banner, while his dwarf son would likely remember Eragon from his time in Winterfell.

Mounting the horse, Eragon spurred it forwards; not at a gallop, but at a steady trot that would allow him to cover the ground before midnight, and not lose his way significantly.

It shouldn't be too dangerous to take it easy on the horse; they would need to push it harder than Eragon would be happy to in the morning, and any more punishment would be unnecessary.

-()-()-()-

"Shit," Eragon whispered, as he heard the tell-tale sounds of a commotion; swords clashing and men, or boys as the case may be, dying. He turned his head to the side, directing his next comment to his horse. "_Sitja._"

Eragon vaulted off the steed, and landed in a run. He was _not_ going to let Arya die too, and so he moved at elven speeds for the few hundred feet to the camp.

The sight he was greeted with was not particularly reassuring. Yoren lay dead; blood puddling around him as it finished pouring from a half dozen wounds. The cage, worryingly, was empty and the men previously imprisoned where no where to be seen. The recruits, excluding the three that may have actually accomplished something, were trying their hands at fighting; choosing soldiers serving under some Lannister Bannerman as their first opponents.

"Idiots." Eragon cursed. While the men would prove little, if any, challenge to him, the boys were either suicidal or dumb to think they could win this scuffle.

With this in mind; and knowing that Arya held little sense when it came to self-preservation, Eragon darted from the trees, with Brisingr drawn and both hands grasping the blue hilt.

The first man received no warning, before the Rider's blade separated his head from shoulders, and the body fell to the ground with a soft thud, and the head with an even softer sound; giving the next a few seconds notice.

The second soldier turned to find Brisingr's point stabbing through the air towards him. He did not have time to dodge, and the blade passed through the leather armour, and the bones underneath, with no resistance at all.

Dispatching these two took Eragon no more than five seconds, yet it was time enough for the tide of battle to overwhelm the boys of the Watch. Gendry, the King's Bastard, had been the only one to put up a fight; he had knocked one man in to the dirt, and disarmed another, before a knight seized his arms and another's fist met his jaw.

"No!" A soft voice's exclamation caught Eragon's attention, and he turned to find a man looming over the small form of Arya; still dressed as a boy since the fact that she was female had only been shared with a very select few of the recruits.

"Round up any survivors," The only man on horseback began, not noticing two of those under his command dead behind him. "We'll take them back to Harrenhall." And that was the last sentence he spoke, as Brisingr separated his upper body from lower; his lower body staying atop the horse as his torso fell to the ground with a _thud_.

Within a second, the Valyrian Steel dagger Eragon was growing to prise was in his hand and, with a flick of his wrist, was sent in to Arya's attacker's back. With a gasp, he turned; the small blade in his left hand looked vaguely familiar to Eragon, and was met by the charging figure of an armour-less knight. Perhaps he would have raise his larger sword to defend himself had there not been a long knife embedded in his back, but the man, instead, found a Bastard sword through his chest, and died with a _gurgle_

Two more began to approach from behind the, now dead, man. As Eragon placed his hand on the impaled soldier's chest; to push him off the blade, he heard two low growls. The men turned, and twin shadows slammed in to them; teeth bared.

"_Bita_." The wolves did; happily, and the men's cries died suddenly as their throats were torn out.

Eragon spun on his heel, and found a pair of soldiers left standing; one more of them having been piled on top of when the recruits saw an opportunity. The boys had seized their chance, and there was a sword pinning the corpse to the ground; stuck through the man's chest. Of the two alive, one certainly stood out.

"Stop! Stop right there, or I swear on the Seven I'll kill him!" The helmeted man had his knife under the chin of a blonde boy, and was pressing hard enough to draw drops of blood. Eragon took a moment to think on the ideal method here. "That's right! Back away, and let us go or he's dead!" They'd seen the man fight, and neither were idiots; that speed was abnormal; as was his throw of the dagger, and neither believed they would be victorious in a fight where they were both outnumbered and against someone with superior training. Unfortunately for the man holding a hostage, Eragon had tricks up his sleeve.

The soldier with a knife felt his friend take hold of his shoulder, and the knife faltered as he turned. "Wha-oof!" He was thrown to the ground, and the other man advanced on him with a sword drawn. "What the hell are you doing?!" He yanked at his own sword, and lashed, wildly, out at his ex-friend. Neither blade met its mark as they clashed, and the standing soldier drew back for another attack just as the downed soldier scrambled to his feet, and lunged at the other man.

Eragon released the hold, and watched the fight end, as the blond boy seized his chance and leapt on to the winner's back. If only he had had the sense to acquire a weapon first, this may have turned out well.

"No!" Arya exclaimed, as Eragon looked on with shock, trying to decide whether he should save the boy. It would be in exchange for discovery, and, so, Eragon hesitated. Once upon a time, he would have acted without thinking, but that man had lived centuries ago. _Millennia_ ago. The armed man turned, pulling his blade free of his dead friend with an almost absent minded air; showing no guilt at just killing one of his friends, and punched the boy in the head; the recruit fell to the ground, and was quickly finished off by a sword's blade cutting through his throat.

"No!" Eragon echoed Arya's statement, for a very different reason, and charged the murderer; Brisingr raised.

To the soldier's credit, he parried the first two of Eragon's blows with great success, and the Rider's blade passed by harmlessly the second time. Unfortunately for the man, that in no way meant Eragon was helpless, and the Knight's knee was driven in to his stomach. The man was thrown to the ground like a sack of grain, and Brisingr flashed in the moonlight; the blade's unnaturally sharp edge cleaving him from shoulder to hip with ease.

Scowling at the dead soldier in front of him, Eragon reached out with his mind, and transferred the energy of him, and his fellows, to the sapphire in Brisingr's pommel. He had a suspicion that he may need it; even if only for a substitute sustenance, soon. Not to say that he didn't have an abundance of energy by this stage, but it was much better to have too much than too little, and if... well, if the dragons turned out to be his enemies, as much as he loathed the thought, or if he had to lay siege on a city in the coming months or years, Eragon may burn through his reserves faster than he would like.

He turned to check on Arya, and was unsurprised to find a horrified expression on her face, but was relieved to find, brushing against her mind, that it was at the death of the boy, not the soldier, that disgusted the girl. Eragon shifted his gaze moments later; to the other witnesses of this scene. What should he do with the boys? Bringing them north would be time consuming, and the majority of them would be useless to the Starks, where he was headed, anyway.

It would be a few minutes, the time it took for them to prepare their effects to move, for him to come up with a suitable plan for the recruits. While they did so, the Rider fetched Ice from where he had left the blade; tied to the underside of the luggage carriage with a long, brown cloak wrapped around it to hide the Valyrian Steel blade; not that Yoren would have let one of his recruits take the blade. Nor would the wolves have accepted the theft, and a single growl from a direwolf was enough to deter even the bravest of robbers.

-()-()-()-

"He has to come with us!" Arya insisted, staring up at Eragon as she did. It seemed to be rather frequent for the girl to forget she was not even five foot tall, and that her _glare_ was far from intimidating.

"How many time do I have to say this? We only have one horse, and he's heavy." Was Eragon's exasperated reply.

"The find another horse; that would let him come with us!"

"And any other horse would only slow our progress, so why should I bring the lad?" The Rider questioned, and then interrupted Arya before she could answer. "And the king's men wouldn't ever find him so long as he keeps his head down and changes his name." Eragon pointed out.

"But he won't be _safe_ if we leave him here!" It was odd that she was so passionate about this, and the assumption of the Rider was obvious from his reaction.

"You little _pervert._" Eragon growled, as his hand wrapped around Gendry's throat. "If you _touched_ her, I will _gut you_." The dagger appeared in his hand, and glinted as the Rider raised the blade so the edge was centimetres from the boy's eye.

"N-No!" Gendry gasped out. "She's... young..." He tried to say, and Eragon found his mind affirming that Gendry, unlike many of the people in this world, disliked the idea of fucking a girl as young as Arya was. What the girl would have said in support of her apparent friend was unclear, as she was interrupted.

"From what this man saw, the Boy tells the truth," An accented voice stated, from behind Eragon. The Rider turned quickly; letting the blacksmith apprentice fall to the ground in a heap, and was poised to strike with the already drawn dagger as the Faceless man continued, with his hands out to his sides to show that he was not _obviously_ armed. Behind him, two horses nickered nervously. "He and the girl, whom he thought a fellow boy for a long while, were becoming friends, but this was only due to their proximity." Eragon understood, and warily nodded; he wasn't thrilled about the Stark girl being around males in the first place, and had jumped to conclusions, and so was forced to accept that Gendry had no ulterior motives.

" And Gendry found... Arry to be the most tolerable, I assume." Jaqen, and Gendry from his place on the ground, nodded the affirmative. That made sense, most of the boys were ill-mannered, and a good few were of a far worse lot than that. "Okay, that deals with one issue," Eragon stated. "Now, would you like to explain why you are here, and not headed over the narrow sea already? I understand that tardiness is less than ideal for men in your order. Or your profession as a whole, for that matter." He raised an eyebrow, and awaited a response from the assassin.

"This man is sure you know already," Jaqen had heard tales of the man from elders in the order, and they were not prone to exaggeration. "But I owe the girl three." It was left unspoken that the faceless man was also aiming to recruit Eragon to his order.

"Owes me three? What does that mean?" Arya asked; her interest recaptured at this.

"You saved him and the other two from an almost certain death, at least at the time, and, so, his god demands three lives in return." Arya looked confused still, so Eragon put it in simpler terms. "He'll kill three people for you. You just have to give him their names." Before Arya could blurt out three names of people that she hated, Eragon continued with a warning. "Hold up, Little Lady. Contemplate it first, or Jaqen will take the horses when he goes. Since they're near as intelligent as the steed I found, I suppose we can take your friend with us."

'Thank- wait... is he Jaqen?" She asked, pointing to the mysterious man in front of her with a suspicious gaze. "How do you know so much about him?"

-_()_-

_Sitja_\- Stay

_Bita_\- Bite


	9. North and West

**Well, here's another chapter of The Stranger's Fire. I hope everyone enjoys it and, as always, would appreciate Follows, Favourites and Reviews.**

**One thing I need to clarify before this chapter; I have nothing against homosexuals. I don't understand liking men, but that doesn't mean I hold a grudge against guys that do (nor against girls who like girls, which I understand ****_more _****so). Likewise, Eragon holds nothing against gay people, even if the other people in the GOT universe do. You'll get why I put this, most likely, by the end of the chapter. I'm just putting this here because sometimes people read subtext where there is no subtext and I did not want to be thought of as a homophobe as that makes even less sense to me than homosexuality in itself. I see no reason to hold what people do in private against them when they are not hurting people.**

**I feel like I've said this before, but there's no real harm to come from repeating it. Eragon is OOC because he's been in many a war in his time (which is thousands of years) and had witnessed many incidents of cruelty towards innocents.**

**One more thing; people keep complaining that I'm not changing enough. I have some colourful language I'd like to use here, but I won't; I don't enjoy stories where the main character comes in and fixes everything in a chapter, and I believe that that is what many of those complaining want. It was described well in an earlier review as the "Stark-wank". If I just saved Ned, and spared/saved all of his relatives, then the story would suffer exponentially because there would be no need for a war; no need for the Game of Thrones. If I was to do that, I might as well have Eragon kill Joffrey, and Cersei, and Tywin, and the Mountain (you can see where I'm going with this.) and what would be the point of that? GOT is one of my favourite shows, if not my favourite show, and I would hate to mess the story up so significantly just to save a couple of characters from character building experience.**

**As to why I've saved Arya, how is Eragon to know that she doesn't need saving? What would possibly result in him arriving at that conclusion? Nothing. He's saving what appears to be the most helpless of the Starks; a girl he cares deeply for.**

**If you want me to write a story where there is no hardship, and everyone goes skipping off into the sunset holding hands and whistling a merry tune, I'm afraid you will always be disappointed. (I am now chuckling to myself at the image of Ned Stark and Stannis Baratheon skipping off together whistling a merry tune)**

**Sorry 'bout the long Author's note.**

**Once again, I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**-()-()-()-**

_Eragon Shadeslayer was bored. Really bored._

_As beautiful as the scenery was in Essos, it was all pretty similar. Sure, he could head back to Westeros, but he'd explored all of that area, as well. Even North of the Wall; though going further North than the Wildlings dared seemed like a bad idea, so he refrained. A bad, _cold_idea._

_Now, here he was in one of the cities of Essos, looking for something interesting to pass the time until inspiration next struck him to do _something_other than wander. He'd ate a few hours before, so that notion held no real interest for him. And he had no desire to remove his inhibitions at the moment; not when he had so little security in this area, so drinking was out. Nor did he particularly like wine. He wasn't tired, so there was no need to search for a place to sleep. He didn't feel the need to fight, either._

_Here Eragon was, in the free city of Braavos, and he was bored out of his mind. He was about to leave; to head further east again to find something more distracting. Valyria, maybe. That was supposedly full of interesting, mysterious stuff and he had thought up a spell, months ago, that would prevent Greyscale from affecting him._

_He was prevented from heading east, though, by feeling _something_on the edge of his mind. Someone in this city had better defences that Eragon had felt since he arrived in this world. As though he _actually_had defences._

_That was worth investigating._

-()-()-()-

That had been a hundred or so years ago; Eragon wasn't sure how long exactly, but what he did know was that he'd spent upwards of two decades with the Faceless men of Braavos after first investigating the temple of the many-faced god. The visits subsequent to meeting the faceless men never lasted more than a fraction of that time, but it made a lot of sense, to Eragon, that the rumours of the man that did not age, and so did not succumb to their god as everyone else, would persist. That was why Jaqen knew of the non-human, and Eragon knew general facts about the Braavosi man because his order where so recognisable to one with the Rider's gifts. Their minds were far more protected than anybody else the magic-user had met in his time in this world and just felt... _different_.

"I stayed with his order briefly, before I came into your father's service." Eragon said, in answer to Arya's question. Not a lie, but an omission of details. "When you know one of them, it's easy to recognise the others."

"Oh..." If Eragon expected more from the girl, he would be disappointed as Arya looked suspiciously at the man and that was all. She was not sure of the assassin's trustworthiness, but assumed Eragon had a good reason to allow him to travel with them. The girl trusted her... protector, Arya guessed was the right word, and, though she would question him if she felt the need, was willing to accept the ex-prisoner's presence. Had it been one of the other two, though, the young Stark girl would have been far less willing to silently accept the presence.

It didn't matter the company Eragon kept; he knew that they needed to get going. The boys they were leaving behind would hold little to no importance to the crown, and would attract even less attention than they deserved as long as they were not fools and kept their heads down so he felt no guilt in abandoning them.

"Come," Eragon began, as he mounted the intelligent animal that he had... acquired before the skirmish. He held out his hand to Arya, and continued. "We need to be off." As the girl took his hand, Eragon effortlessly lifted her and placed her in front of him on the steed.

Next to him, Jaqen followed suit and the pair did not wait for Gendry to clamber onto his horse to get going; he would have to play catchup for that very reason.

"This man wonders where we are headed." Jaqen stated, in his usual, calm tone. Eragon would guarantee, even without touching his mind, that the assassin had a good idea.

"North." Was the simple reply of the long-lived man.

-()-()-()-

"Mmm." Arya groaned into her protector's chest, as they cantered along. The girl was asleep, since they had been riding for a day and most of a knight and was unaware of the mental conversation going on between Eragon and the Faceless man riding alongside them. Gendry, meanwhile, was attempting to keep his eyelids open through sheer force of will.

'_I am not going to join your order, Jaqen, and you will not convince me otherwise; many of your order attempted to sway me to your cause during my time in your land and I've heard all the arguments by now. Feel free to try, though. It's been a long journey already, and isn't going to be any more pleasant in the future. I welcome any form of entertainment that'll help alleviate the boredom._' Eragon smirked over at the man, as Jaqen responded.

'_This man does not understand why he refuses,_' The Faceless man stated, using the term they had assigned to Eragon. '_He is well-suited to the art, and often complains of boredom. The Faceless men are never bored._'

'_I used to complain of boredom, and even then I didn't feel the need to join your order. These are not boring times, so the temptation is even more minimal._' Eragon corrected the man.

'_The many faced god would-' _Jaqen began, only to be unable to finish the argument.

'_I hold no loyalty to any god. That's not going to hold any sway over me unless you have proof of the being._' Eragon interrupted the man, with a calm argument.

'_The man holds honour and the people that practise it to a high regard. Any who work in our order feel the same way about their own codes of honour. The men value freedom and allow people to follow any compulsion they have; never forcing them to take contracts that are against these moral codes._' The Faceless man was not going to give up on recruiting Eragon just yet.

'_And that is the reason I take no offence to the notion of joining your order. I would despise you and the other members of your order, instead of holding your skill in high regard, if you did not have these moral codes._' The red and white haired male paused for a few moments to decide on another line of argument.

'_You shall be able to take vengeance on those that have wronged you and the people you care about,_' Jaqen offered, before realising that this was a poor argument. '_Or the man could have another take the revenge. This man is certain that his fellows would agree that the price of the man's joining would pay for many deaths to the many-faced god. This man is aware that the people could die by the man's own hand, but it may be better to have another take his enemies' lives._

'_The man would also be providing mercy to those who deserved it, and helping those that are desperate enough to seek help from those in the Black and White house._' Was the half-hearted argument given, as Jaqen H'Ghar, himself, noticed a counter argument.

'_And what about during the wars that are imminent? You are forbidden from intervening in those, are you not? Your order remain impartial in conflicts. I, on the other hand, intend to fight._' Eragon smirked, and refrained from adding that he was unsure which side he would fight for. Whichever side was most beneficial to the realm, and not directly against the Starks, since he cared for the family.

-()-()-()-

"Morning, sleepyhead." Eragon spoke, as Arya sat up in her bed. One that was on the left wall of a room she had no recollection of entering. "Well, evening technically."

"Wuh?" Arya asked, as she wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth with a small blush. "Where are we?" She wondered aloud; directing the query to her protector.

"An inn. We're near the North, and would continue on that path had I not heard... a rumour about the location of your brother's army. Robb and Catelyn are in the Westerlands at the moment, fighting against the forces of House Lannister." Eragon sat on his bed; on the opposite wall of the room, and continued. "So that's where I'll take you."

"Okay," Arya accepted that explanation. "Why are we sharing a room?" She asked, confused as she knew for a fact Eragon would not be hard-pressed for money; he could have easily afforded another room in the inn.

"I wasn't going to leave my charge alone in a room where anyone could get at you," Eragon reached over, and ruffled the girl's hair. "You're much too important for that, little Lady." The man reached under his bed and withdrew the leather boots that he was wearing to travel. "Now get ready; I was only waiting for you to wake up before we left."

"Uh, right." Arya clambered out of bed, and noticed she was already dressed as she asked her next question. "And the others?"

"They each have their own room; Gendry didn't seem thrilled at the idea of sharing with Jaqen, so I paid for two." Eragon hefted his meagre pack of possessions; not having bothered to acquire much, and shouldered Ice as Arya pulled on her own footwear. "Ready to go?"

"Yep," Arya nodded. "I think so."

"I'll grab some fruit for you to eat on the road, I hope that's okay," Eragon opened the door for the Stark girl and Arya exited the room. "And I'd start thinking what names you'll give Jaqen, assuming there are no desperate needs during the journey, if I was you."

Arya remained silent as she began contemplating this.

"Oh, and Ilyn Payne is dead, so don't waste one on him."

"Dead? When? How?" Arya asked, with excitement. She was very happy that the King's Justice was deceased.

"I killed him before leaving King's landing," Eragon answered. "It was quick and painful, but I'm not giving any more details than that. You don't need to know the hows of it."

-()-()-()-

"Well, well, fellas, look what we have here." One of the men; atop his horse, said. Beneath his helm, Ramsay Hill smirked. He and his troops were headed for the last-known location of the so-called Young Wolf; as were several other groups of soldiers, to join with Tywin Lannister's forces once they arrived. "You four seem to have stumbled upon your demise." His smirk stretched to a grin as he observed the look of the group. While the youngsters looked rather rough around the edges, the two men screamed 'rich nobles out of their depths' to the Bastard soldier.

"Unless you're willing to fork over that fancy sword of yours and any gold you happen to have on you, that it." Ramsay's friend and lover finished, from the horse next to him. Richerd fingered his sword as the nearest man; the one with a girl on his horse as well, narrowed his eyes.

"And the girl," Ramsay added. "My men would appreciate some... entertainment."

Eragon readied himself for this fight; it had been too much to hope that these men, like those the foursome had encountered previously, would be peaceful. Not that all of them were as despicable as the homosexuals leading them; nor did Eragon hold their buggery against them, but they would follow the lead of their _superiors_ if Richerd and Ramsay chose to fight.

"If you do not leave now, I'll kill the two of you, and any others that attack." Eragon stated, coldly. "But I would rather not do so in front of the girl." Eragon gestured to Arya, where she was sat in front of him. The girl was glaring at them with hatred that, if looks could kill, would cause the Lannister men to whither and die. Screaming.

The men burst out laughing at Eragon's threat, and the two horses that the group had nickered at the loud noise. Obviously, they underestimated him. Why would they think his threat held any weight, after all?

"Not that you're unintimidating, or anything, Lord whoever-you-are," Ramsay assumed Eragon was a noble, unsurprisingly. "But, and I think I speak for all of us when I say this, we're going to kill you and your weird-looking friend. Maybe we can sell the boy," He thought alive. "And the girl, as well, if she's not too... damaged afterwards."

With a growl, reminiscent of the times Eragon's mind would merge with the partner of his soul, Eragon let the people know they had crossed the line. Or, at least, let one of the men present know that. The brown haired Rider was off his horse in seconds, and handed the reigns to Jaqen H'Ghar.

"Stay out of this." Eragon ordered the Faceless man, who nodded. He was unwilling to waste the lives Arya owed on these wastes of space. They would scare soon enough anyway. He stretched his mind out towards the steeds of the couple, and spoke to them.

'_Hraezla_.' He directed at the animals, and the creatures were filled with panic.

"Whah!" Richerd exclaimed, as he was bucked off the horse and sent to the ground along with his lover; both landing with twin _crunches_ and cries of pain. The horses fled, and Eragon paid them no heed; instead directing his attention to the humans they had thrown.

Before any of the other Lannister men had recovered from the shock of seeing their bosses unseated inexplicably, Eragon had drawn Brisingr and the blue blade was held in a reverse grip; tip pointed to the ground and left hand resting on the pommel to give the Rider the best angle possible as he lunged forwards and came to a stop over the first of the leaders; Ramsay. The helmeted man was raising himself slowly after his fall; on his hands and knees as Eragon raised Brisingr, and his back was to the sky.

The Rider's blade pierced his plate armour, and the tip buried into the ground as it burst through the other side. Eragon wrenched it free, and blood poured from the large hole in the man as Ramsay Hill fell limply into the dirt; his face meeting the mud first. The Bastard was dead, and Eragon turned to the man's fellow; his blue blade raising to strike before the man knew what had happened.

Richerd would have died as quickly as his lover, had one of his men not been quicker to recover than he.

The soldier leapt forward, with a spear readied to deal a fatal blow to his unarmoured opponent. Eragon spun on the spot, and Brisingr slashed out in a blue blur. The head of the spear fell to the ground and the arm of the man holding it followed moments later.

Eragon turned again, leaving the man to die from the copious amounts of blood pouring from his dismembered shoulder, and caught a plain sword on his beautiful blade. The soldier pushing against Eragon gripped the hilt with both hands, and pushed with all his might as Eragon raised his free left fist, and drew it back.

The Rider punched forwards, and his knuckles, virtually indestructible with his thorough magic-weaving in his own world, connected with the soldier's jaw. The man's head snapped to the side with a _crack_, and Eragon stepped away as he fell to the floor. The Lannister man did not rise again.

The next man raised his shield at the same time as his sword, and would have capitalised on Eragon losing his footing upon the blade bouncing off the metal rim, had this occurred.

Brisingr punched through the centre of the shield, and into the man's skull. Eragon raised his foot, and kicked the man off his blade. The Rider spun, and the next man fell with a long, diagonal cut running from his right shoulder to left hip.

Eragon's hand darted out, and caught the wrist of Richerd as he swung his sword in an overhead, wild attempt; enraged by his lover dying in front of him and having spent the time before this staring, helplessly, at Ramsay's corpse. With a twist of his own wrist, Eragon shattered the bones in the man's forearm, and the sword fell from his grasp as Richerd let out a cry of pain.

Eragon spun in the direction of his foe as a spear stabbed through the space he had been occupying, and kicked Richerd's legs from under him just before he tore the spear from his attacker's grip, and spun it in his own. The point was then facing forwards, and Eragon thrust it, catching his attacker under the chin. The head of the spear snapped off inside the man's skull, and the Rider _cracked_ the body over an unarmoured skull, before discarding the shaft as he raised Brisingr to finish off the man on the ground.

"Wait!" The sapphire blade paused millimetres from Richerd's neck as the man cried, and Eragon spoke at the same time as he raised Brisingr to hover above the man; poised to separate head from torso.

"Why?" He growled at the half-dead man, as he glanced at the remaining enemies. They, rightfully, were afraid of the man they had believed weak. He had killed some of their best without taking a single injury. The only evidence was the blood that had spattered across his clothing and skin.

"H-Have mercy!"

"You did not answer my question." Eragon stated. "Why should I spare you? We are on opposite sides of this war, and you just threatened to do unthinkable things to one of the few people I care about. What possible reason would I have for letting you live?"

"I-If you do, my men will not attack you!" Richerd promised.

"It does not look like any of them have the mind to attack me anyway," Eragon pointed out. "After the show I just gave, I would be surprised if they all still have dry undergarments. Are any of you planning on attacking me?" He asked, to finish.

The men shook their heads in unison.

"Smart lads." Eragon turned his attention back to the man on the floor. "Now I recommend you come up with another reason. One that is more compelling than the last."

"I-I-"

"Didn't think so." Eragon finished the stammering man's sentence, and Brisingr descended.

Later, the Rider would thank the gods it had been Arya, instead of her sister, that witnessed this display. The young girl was _afraid_, of course, by the display of strength but was far quicker to get over this fear than Sansa would have been. Arya understood what the men were going to do, and knew that Eragon's violence was deserved. In the land of Westeros, any people involved in threatening a Lord's daughter, and even more so a princess, as Arya supposed she may be now, would be put to death. Eragon had, in that context, been merciful by allowing some of the men to live.

Gendry's fear of the man redoubled at the sight of Eragon, splattered with blood, standing amidst at least five corpses with the other me,n that ought to be fighting him, slowly backing away from Arya's protector. That had been at least as impressive a showing, from Gendry's point of view, as Eragon's fighting at the Knight's Watch camp. The boy also knew, from his time in a Blacksmith's, that the swordsmanship Eragon had displayed was _astounding_, bordering on unnatural, and rethought his plan to try to examine the Stark man's gorgeous blade.

Jaqen was unconcerned even at the beginning of the fight. He had heard rumours of the skill of the undying man in combat, and was happy to see that the others in his order had not exaggerated the tales of Eragon's prowess. Now, he only had to verify the supernatural gifts Eragon supposedly had were, and his curiosity would be sated. He was already beginning to reach the conclusion that Eragon may well be the most gifted killer he had met; the years with his order would have provided him with the skills of an assassin on top of the supernatural abilities Eragon held in battle. And this opinion was solely based on his own experience with the man. If he included all he had heard, and all that he sensed, Jaqen would firmly say that Eragon's gifts were incredible compared to those of anyone else.

"If I see you again on the opposite side of the battlefield, I will not let any of you leave alive." Eragon warned, just before the remaining Lannister men fled. Then, Eragon lifted his shirt and used it to wipe away all of the blood he could from his face, and turned to face the group he was accompanied by.

"Come," Eragon said, looking with concern at Arya. "We need to get going if we want to reach your family by noon."

The girl nodded, and attempted a smile as Eragon wiped Brisingr on one of the dead men's tunics and sheathed the blade. Needless to say, her attempts were less than convincing.

-()-()-()-

_Hraezla-_ Terror


	10. In the Stark Camp

**Here's another chapter of The Stranger's Fire. **

**I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and let me know through Reviews, Follows and Favourites.**

**-()-()-()-**

Eragon was walking beside Arya, who was atop a horse, through the Stark camp. Gendry and Jaqen were following close behind the two; the bastard boy with a nervous expression and the Faceless man with his face hidden by a low hanging hood that cast a shadow over his face.

The reason that Eragon was walking was simple; Arya, no matter how hard she tried, could not hide the fear that was radiating from her mind after the show he had put on earlier in their trip. She did not believe that he would hurt her; not really, but the unavoidable fear of someone that would, so easily, be able to end your life, was present and strong in the young girl no matter how badly it bugged _her _to feel that way. Her self-loathing had increased upon Eragon dismounting, the Stark girl somehow knowing that Eragon had done so for her sake, and now she was frowning down at the not-human as he pointedly looked forwards, ignoring the curious looks the odd ensemble received in favour of reaching the_ Young Wolf_ as soon as possible.

They reached the tent in less than half an hour, and Eragon led Arya's horse over to the hitching post at the side; pausing once he rose to his full height after anchoring the horse to consider his next course of action. The frown that creased his brow only lasted for a few minutes before Eragon reached up and plucked Arya from her horse; setting her down on steady feet quickly and stepping away from her as soon as she was on her feet. Then, he turned to the others, and quickly strode to Jaqen upon receiving a mental prompt to do so.

"What's up?" Eragon asked, ignoring the confusion coming from the unguarded mind he had just left as Arya watched his back.

"This man needs to leave," The man muttered, as he dismounted following Eragon's lead. "He does not have a role to play in this war unless he is paid."

"Alright," Eragon nodded. Upon sensing the other man's confusion, he elaborated. "I only wanted you around for Arya's sake. Now that she's with the Stark company, I doubt that you'd make all that much difference. No offence intended, of course, I only mean that there are countless bodies here to protect her. Only one of your order would stand a chance of infiltrating the camp, and I do not doubt you have sent word that the Starks are friends of mine by this stage." They were unlikely to anger, or betray, as may be the better term, Eragon for any sum, given that he was once made an _honorary_ member of their order, would always be the optimum recruit for them, and was, quite plainly, a major threat to any of the order that crossed him.

"He has," The hood bobbed as Jaqen nodded.

"Well then, I advise that you ask Arya to give you three names. Then, you'll be able to repay the debt and be done with it, right?" The hood bobbed again, and Jaqen paused.

"This man would ask once again if-"

"I'm not going to join your order." Eragon interrupted, with a smirk. "Too much going on in the outside world, but I'm sure I'll visit again soon enough. It's a part of my plan to travel across the narrow sea in the quite immediate future, after all." Jaqen's thoughts on the matter, of annoyed disappointment, were not expressed as Eragon walked away. At the same time, Gendry had tied up his horse, and was stood uncomfortably in front of Robb's tent; though the boy did not know what the tent contained.

Eragon, on the other hand, felt tempers rising from inside as the new Stark Lord, and claimant to the Northern Kingdom, discussed strategy with his most trusted advisors. With a frown, Eragon noticed that there was no squire posted out the front of the tent to let them know that someone here for an audience. Expanding his mind, he soon found that the boy had been waylaid by his girlfriend, and was engaging in amorous activities in between two tents. Shrugging, as he did not particularly care what two strangers did, or how they slacked off, Eragon stood in front of the entrance and did the boy's duty for him.

"Eragon of House Rider to see Lord Robert Stark!" He called out, announcing his presence as Arya and Jaqen began talking on the subject of who she'd like him to kill. While Eragon was interested in who her choices would be, it was a greater necessity to talk to Robb and, if she was here currently, Catelyn.

"Enter!" Was the immediate reply of the young Lord, and Eragon did, leaving Arya, briefly, outside as he kept a mental eye on her location. If she attempted to move, he would promptly fetch her. If someone tried to take her, the nearest medic would have a hard time figuring out why he had suddenly dropped dead of an aneurysm in front of their king's tent.

Eragon found himself greeted by the expected sight; Robb was in the centre of the room; the only real change was a half-inch or so that he had grown in height, a few more in breadth of his chest and shoulders, and the red beard that now adorned his jaw. Around him, were a group of war-veteran Lords that owed loyalty to the Starks; either because of oaths or debts, that Robb apparently decided would serve well in the coming months of war and conflict. His mind stretched out in order to gain some small insight to each of their characters, at the same time as he looked to Robb and appeared to await conversation. Eragon's magic flared slightly, and a particular attendee of Robb's felt as though the collar of his shirt had suddenly tightened. Eragon was really growing sick of all these people; too many of them were rotten to the core.

"Eragon," Robb's relieved grin would not have been so obvious had he not been as exhausted as he was. Even so, he had the presence of mind to glance at the others inside the tent and dismiss them with a gesture. "Leave us."

"Aye, Your Grace." A large Lord, from House Umber, was the only one to reply. He looked curiously, with a hint of suspicion, at Eragon before he did. As the flap shut, Eragon spoke up.

"You've moved up in the world since I last saw you." The elf-human hybrid said, with a grin. "From heir of Winterfell to King in the North is quite the progression."

"Hmm," Robb nodded, his mood sour at the reason he was thrown into this role, and Eragon resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. The boy was obviously taking the observations he made of his father as a lord to heart with the serious air he was holding himself. The Rider knew the worth of seriousness in many situations, of course, and war was certainly one of them, but Ned had only been a Lord. A Lord of one of the strongest houses in Westeros and Warden of the North, but not a king. A king needed to have something on top of a brooding air if he was going to rule effectively. Something to appeal to the masses. Robert Baratheon, for example, had been a terrible king behind closed doors but he had been boisterous and popular from his days leading the rebellion. He had convinced the masses that he was a fair representative of them as they were so alike. Perhaps, in the North, Robb would fit, but he would not fit the Iron Throne.

"Is that the limit of your ambition?" Eragon asked the boy. "Just the North or the South as well?"

"Bah." Robb looked disgusted by the thought. "Never the South. Let them fight over it, but we will not give loyalty to the men that killed my father." That may have sounded selfish, had Eragon not known how much just about every Lord of the North, and even their soldiers, celebrated Eddard Stark. That subject brought Robb back to more important matters, and he suddenly stood; his chair clattering to the ground. "My sisters! Have you seen them?!" He demanded of Eragon.

"Apologies, but I could not get Sansa out of the capitol without risking too much, by which I mean her life, and I honestly expected more difficulty in travelling here; I assumed Lannister men would be combing the country and Sansa would attract even more attention than me and a Valyrian steel Greatsword. Sansa's still in their custody, I'm afraid, but I could certainly sneak back in and rescue her if you can get your forces near enough to hand her off to you or one of your bannermen." He offered. While Eragon _could_ get her now, there _was_ too much risk involved. He could not very well sack the city by himself... well, he was able to, but that would result in Seven-knows how many deaths; very few of which would be justified given that footsoldiers only did what they were ordered. "If it helps, though, she's safe. Cercei may be many things; bitch being the word that springs to mind, but she is not a fool. She needs Sansa alive and Joffrey will not be allowed to harm her."

"I guess you're right..." Robb noticed something, and continued. "Wait, what about Arya?"

"Arya?" Eragon knew it was slightly mean to pause for dramatic effect, but... "Oh, she's outside." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating her position with Gendry performing makeshift bodyguard duties.

"WHAT?!" Robb was around the table, and out of the door, in seconds. Say what you want about the boy, and _cold_ would soon be a word associated with his description, as it was with every king in the North, he shared his father's deep love and loyalty for family. Eragon followed, as he heard Arya let out a surprised squeal, and Gendry follow it up with a shocked yell; no doubt in response to the girl's own noise.

"Robb!" Arya yelled, as her brother pulled her into a hug.

"Sister!" Was Robb's response, as his sister returned the embrace. Eragon and Gendry watched the reunion in silence; one with confusion and the other with happiness, as the elder sibling's bannermen reappeared; having begun to return as soon as they heard their Lord's surprised exclamation from their distance just-within earshot of a scream, or yell.

None of them knew what to say, upon seeing their King hugging the girl they had all walked past, moments before, without a second look. Now, several of them began to recognise her as the younger Stark daughter.

"Oh, Mother's going to be so sorry that she wasn't here to see you," Robb whispered to the girl, as he released her from the hug upon noticing the bannermen. While he may have loved his family, Robb was not the type to give public displays of affection in any but the most extreme circumstances.

"Why? Where is she?" Arya wondered aloud; looking around as though Catelyn would suddenlypop out from behind a tent. She had missed her mother, even if she did not miss the lessons that Lady Stark had forced upon her.

"Storm's End." Robb smiled, apologetically. When the girl did not respond, he turned to explain the reason to Eragon, who _was_ curious as to why Lady Stark had left her son at this time. "We'd benefit from an alliance with Renly Baratheon." He summed up, and Eragon nodded slowly, before he asked a follow up question.

"Wait... Renly's rebelling? Why is that?" He had an idea, but there was no way that was the case. Incest was condemned in this world, after all

"Joffrey was born of incest between the queen and her brother." Greatjon explained, in a gruff tone, and Robb nodded to let Eragon know this was true.

Okay... maybe he was correct. That must have been why Ned was investigating Robert's bastards.

-()()()-

Later that day, Eragon was doing his best to ignore the crowd that had gathered around him, and the comments that reached his sensitive ears, as he felt the familiar, welcome burn that reminded him of his world and the culture that had embraced him after the Blood-Oath celebration; the culture that had allowed him to meet Arya, leading to their lives together.

If he were to listen to their conversations, Eragon would not be happy with what he heard. The comments from the women that were not supposed to be with the army, but that trailed along behind in the accompanying camp and merged together during the day, would have made him slightly uncomfortable as their whispers were not quiet enough to hide the lust-filled comments. The men that had followed the commotion were less complimentary, in general; Greatjon being the least subtle in his comments about Eragon's Rimgar. Of course they would not see the worth; Eragon himself had had trouble seeing the need for the exerting stretches as a human, and that was even with Oromis explaining the need; something the lone Rider was unwilling to do for the Stark men that were watching him.

As he entered the fourth level, Eragon noticed the strain that came with him neglecting the Dance of the Snake and Crane in recent weeks and grew mildly irritated at himself for doing so. As he began, suspending himself with his arms as he twisted his upper body so that his triceps took the entirety of his weight and allowed his torso and legs to hover, parallel to the ground, before raising above his head so that his heels narrowly avoided brushing his scalp. They reached the ground, and Eragon heard his back click once, as the slightly neglected vertebrae stretched and popped, and the flat of his feet touched the ground. He raised his hands off the ground, and grimaced ever so slightly as he raised himself to standing position and felt the strain in his thighs. Eragon heard muttered exclamations of surprise from his unwelcome audience, and he scowled as the massive advisor of Robb grew tired of people being impressed by the activity.

"Bah!" He exclaimed, stepping out of the circle that had formed to allow Eragon the necessary room; something he needed if he was to do the entire dance. "That's not the way a warrior trains!" Upon Eragon making no reply; instead flowing into the next stage of the level, he chose to continue. "I heard you could fight, and here you are acting the part of a woman even better than Loras Tyrell!" Greatjon, along with many others, mocked Renly and his lover for their buggery.

Eragon maintained his silence. Much as he found the man unpleasant, he knew that Greatjon was an asset to the Starks, and that fighting him would be ill-advised. He ignored the continued insults as best he could, but the lumbering Lord was quite persistent.

"It's no surprise that he's too much of a coward to respond," The Lord commented to a man next to him. "A Knight of the south is more suited to disciplining weaklings ordered not to respond than fighting men of the North. For that matter, why do we have a southern _girl_ in our camp? You've delivered the princess, what are you still doing here?" He demanded of Eragon.

"I am not of the South, you great Oaf," Eragon began, as he pushed himself to his feet with the strength of his toned arms. "Have you ever seen a Southron man that looked like me?" The Rider questioned, arching his angular eyebrow.

"I certainly haven't seen a Northerner that looked like you." Greatjon huffed.

"And you are unaware of the lands beyond Westeros?" Eragon questioned. "I assumed all Lords were taught basic geography." Eragon said, and he scooped up Brisingr from where it had been resting next to him during the Dance of the Snake and Crane. He leant the Hand-and-a-Half sword, complete with deep sapphire hilt, on his shoulder and began to walk away; seemingly dismissing the Lord as he did so. Had Greatjon been more observant, he man have noticed the grip the Rider had on his beautiful blue sword's hilt and the coiling of his muscles as he turned his back on the man.

"What does that mean?!" Greatjon was not dumb; he gathered that Eragon was implying this was the case and was furious at the insult. He was, however, short tempered and so those that knew him well expected his course of action prior to the man seizing his greatsword and charging forwards.

Eragon spun, as the Lord approached, and Greatjon's momentum carried him past the lean Rider even as Eragon unsheathed Brisingr and held the sheath in his left hand in a reverse grip. He did not raise the sapphire blade, though, and waited for the Lord to twist with his weapon raised to block a suspected blow. When Greatjon saw that Eragon had not taken the chance to attack, he growled out his anger; enraged that the knight was still underestimating him, in his mind. Like a bull in the same state, Greatjon leapt, unthinking, at his smaller opponent and swung his massive sword in an overhead, hammer blow. Eragon stepped aside, and the ugly blade met the ground; only stopped from embedding itself in the dirt by its owner slowing its trajectory as he noticed his target had moved.

The Umber men, in the crowd, would have

Eragon briefly noted that the man was entirely capable of fighting with half of his hand missing, and leapt backwards as the Lord of House Umber swung his blade in a vicious, horizontal attack. Evidently, he was enraged enough to cut Eragon in two, as that blow would have done, and so the Dragon Rider scowled, deciding to finish the fight promptly.

He stepped forwards, inside Greatjon's guard, and brought Brisingr's sheath across his ribs; drawing a grunt from the larger man, before kicking the Lord's feet out from under him. Greatjon fell to the ground with a surprised yell, one of his hands releasing the massive sword in shock so that it lay in his grip on his right-hand side, and Eragon was on him; Brisingr's sheath placed against his throat and its point hovering over his eyes.

"Don't move." Eragon hissed, and the sapphire blade glinted in the sun that was beating down on them.

Greatjon simply blinked, confused at what had just happened, and did not form any words before another voice interrupted them.

"Ser Eragon!" Robb barked, as he arrived on the unwelcome scene. "What are you doing?!" The rider rose once again, as he was certain Greatjon would not attack one more with his King present, and looked at the boy.

"Defending myself." He responded. "Your Bannerman attacked me, and so I fought back." He elaborated.

"He is a Lord!" It was not Robb that announced this, but someone from aforementioned Lord's household. They were unhappy that Eragon dared strike the head of house Umber, and glared at him to let the knight know this.

"Who deserved that." Greatjon corrected the logic, as he rose and loomed next to Eragon. "It is good to know that your reputation was not fiction." He grinned at the man, and continued. "I did not even see you move!" Greatjon clapped Eragon on the shoulder, as he laughed.

"Thanks," Eragon smirked back, and then raised his hand to pry the Lord's vice-grip off. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't crush my shoulder. It's give you a chance next time, but I don't fight for your enemy."

"Tough talk for a little man." Greatjon shoved Eragon, who stumbled away, and walked over towards Robb. "It's good to see your father's judgement in action again!" He commented, loudly once again, and Robb nodded, with a relieved smile; glad that the Lord was willing to let this go.

-()-()-()-

From the field, Eragon returned to the tent that Robb had provided for him to begin packing. He needed to leave as soon as possible, lest the Starks get the idea that he would be sticking around. Of course, the knight would have to explain his reasoning, that he would serve little to no purpose in a slow moving, restrictive army, to Robb and, by extension, his mother and sister, but the boy had virtually no power to stop Eragon from other pursuits.

Then, he realised he had nothing _to_ pack. He had not brought anything with him on the trip to Robb's camp; leaving the few possessions he had brought to King's landing, other than his dagger and Brisingr, in his rush. Furthermore, Ice was now in its rightful owner's possession, and so Eragon did not even have that cumbersome great-sword to bring on his travels, wherever they may be. Nor did he have companions to slow him, meaning that Eragon would have no use for horse; even one that was as remarkably intelligent as the animal he... procured on the way to the Stark camp.

And, so, Eragon walked out of his tent, and towards the heart of the camp, with only the clothes on his back; easily cleaned with a spell, his treasured Rider's blade, and the Valyrian Steel dagger. He made a mental note to sing a new bow the next chance he got as he entered Robb's tent once again to inform the newly-made Lord of his decision to leave, and ask if he had any suggestions where to head. The Rider figured he had a few options, ranging from visiting the Wall, rescuing Sansa, or investigating the last Targaryen claimant to the Iron throne.


	11. Across the Narrow Sea

**Here's another chapter that I hope you all enjoy. It's a short-ish one, since I wanted to end it where I did. Eragon leaves the camp yet again.**

**One thing that I feel like apologising for somewhat is that things begin to change around this chapter, yet it doesn't happen on-screen, for lack of a better term. There are hints of the changes, and those in the future, but they're occurring in Westeros, while Eragon is travelling.**

**A small time-skip, but nothing drastic. Basically, Eragon goes South and then North; I don't think that any details are necessary and so I've left them out. This influences the changes somewhat, but I feel that people would get annoyed by reading his trip. It's bad enough that this is a filler-esque chapter.**

**(I'm adding this a few hours after posting the chapter) Saphira is, eventually, going to arrive on the scene, but it is still a little while off. Eragon will have to get acquainted with the dragons currently in this world before Saphira (who is a helluva lot more impressive, I'm sure you'll agree) can show up and wow everyone. Plus, Saphira's damn powerful and adding her in too quickly would mean that Eragon could do _literally_ anything he wanted, and nobody could stand up to him. Alright, he could kind of do that now, but he'd be overwhelmed eventually whereas Saphira would just cook and/or eat everyone that got in her Rider's way.**

**Please Review, Follow and Favourite. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and the direction this story is heading in.**

**-()()-**

It was several weeks later, when Eragon was found, once again, stood at the edge of the Stark encampment. The northern edge, to be more specific, stood next to the Stark Lord and watching the females of Robb's house leave alongside the small-ish troupe of troops accompanying them as they headed home. It was a good move, on Robb's part, to put his foot down and send his mother and sisters back to Winterfell and, even more, to send protection for them and those that had been left behind as the army departed. Eragon had pointed out, to the King in the North, that it was not wise to leave his apparent seat-of-power undefended as he had. None of his advisors had had something to counter his reasoning and, so, Robb agreed to send a small force to accompany the three.

"I..." Robb began, trying to think of a way to properly thank the man stood next to him. When he could not think of words to properly express his gratitude, the young Lord settled on tested and true words. "Thank you, Eragon. I hate to think of what would have happened to my sisters had you not been here." The claimant king said, sincerely.

"You don't have to thank me, Robb," Eragon reassured him, yet again. "I'm just glad to see them safe." The Rider returned.

"Nevertheless, I feel obligated to offer _some_ reward. Ask, and it's yours."

"You definitely don't have to _reward_ me," Eragon smiled at the offer. "But, how about you promise to remember me when you sit on your throne? I could use a place to stay in the future, after all." He clapped the shorter man on the shoulder, and Robb grinned.

"Of course. My mother would have me flogged if I didn't." Was his response, as the two turned to watch the three leave. Catelyn and Sansa's hair looked far redder then normal, as the sunlight from dawn reflected off the pair, and Robb could see Arya's slumped shoulders even from here. "You best promise to return, though, if that's to be the case," He said, with a concerned frown. "I haven't ever seen Arya so sad."

The girl had latched onto Eragon, after the man protected her once their father perished; yet another thing that Robb was grateful to the man for. Even though she had seemed somewhat fearful after his display of deadliness, that Gendry had told Robb of at a later date, his youngest sister had been livid that Eragon had left, last time, without saying goodbye. She had just about forgiven the mysterious man, after Robb explained that Eragon would have a better chance of infiltrating the Capitol without notice if he avoided _any_ potential spies; a factor that Robb, himself, had disliked since Eragon had all but accused Roose Bolton of treachery based on a _feeling _he got from the man.

Honestly, the idea that Eragon distrusted the man on instinct worried Robb even more; that was a skill his father had spoken of with admiration, after all. He would have to keep an eye on the man from this point forwards, lest his cause be taken down from the inside.

"Of course," Eragon promised. "How could I miss my favourite King's coronation?" He asked, amused. Of course, that was a long time away; Eragon had work to do before then. He'd hung around here for too long after rescuing Sansa, after all.

The Rider without a Dragon made a mistake in leaving her in the Capitol, he supposed. Honestly, based on the fact that he had two skirmishes in his trip to the Stark camp, Eragon had to admit that the girl would not necessarily have been able to cope. Arya was, in his opinion, the tougher sister, yet she had been afraid of him after the deaths of the Lannister squad; Eragon did not want to think of how Sansa would have reacted to the sight.

But, either way, he was glad he had gone back. Not only would it save Sansa from gods-know-what, taking the Queen from under their noses would inspire fear in the Lannisters; it would tell them that, even behind their high walls, they were not safe. Perhaps it would lead to rumours of boogeymen, or spirits that helped Robb Stark, and there would be defectors. At the very least, it would add to the fearful talk about Robb being able to turn his form to that of a wolf. Despite the confrontations he had when he returned, for not taking care of Joffrey while he had the chance, Eragon believed that he had done the right thing. Much as he despised him, Joffrey's death would simply throw the realm into utter chaos. His mother would crown Tommen, while Stannis would proclaim himself king. Robb would attempt to take advantage of the pandemonium, and press forwards. He would be met with a superior force; controlled by the Lannisters themselves, and would be crushed beneath their heel. The only way for Robb to grow stronger was to make this a marathon, instead of a sprint and, even then, he needed to _gain support_ if he was to win.

Having Joffrey on the throne was the key to getting someone better. Tommen was a kind, gentle boy; his subjects would look forward to the day he came of age, and would not accept the claims of anyone else. That would prevent Robb from surviving this war, and the Northerners would perish with his failure; including Arya and Sansa. There was a good chance that, if he had been in control, Tommen would have spared the rebels because he was of that nature, but Tommen would not _be_ in control. Cersei would be, and Cersei was not a forgiving person. She would not accept anything that risked her safety, nor that of her children. Eragon had thought, long and hard, about a way to prevent this. He came up with very few options; fewer, still, would be feasible. He had wondered, for example, if he could take one of Cersei's children. He would not hurt Marcella, of course, but he might have been able to trade the girl for the safety of the Starks. He had eventually dismissed this for a number of reasons.

Firstly, would be the difficulty of grabbing her. He knew that there would be guards outside her room, or Tommen's had he chosen that path instead, and if he was to kill them silently he would be risking the discovery that he was magical. On top of that, what if, when they fell, the bodies, clad in armour, rattled and woke the princess? She would scream, and the castle would be alerted. Were he to create some grievous wound on each of them, the princess may be alerted; she would scream, and the castle would be alerted. If he managed to get past this obstacle, and manage to sneak Marcella out of the castle; he would likely be carrying a _very_ blonde girl through the streets. That would attract attention. Were he to miraculously get her out of the _city_, Eragon could not guarantee that his efforts would help his cause at all. Cersei would do anything for her children, but _Tywin_? What if the man asked for some proof that he had Myrcella? Eragon would not put it past the man to demand that he send a severed finger, and the Rider would not be able to do that to any _girl_, let alone one that was his captive.

He could not think of a better method to assure that Joffrey's death would bring any peace to the land, instead of a vengeful queen that hunted him, and everyone he cared about, to the furthest corners of this world.

Eragon had forced himself to steady his hand, because of this, no matter how badly he wished the inbred-king dead. Bringing chaos to the world would not bring the black haired children back, after all.

As the three Stark females grew smaller, and then disappeared behind a hill, Eragon rechecked the weapons on his hips, and set off; travelling, as always, very light.

-()()()-

"You there," A man began, in an excited, accented tone. "You need to travel across the sea?" He asked, loudly.

"That's right," Eragon nodded, as he stepped away from the overly friendly man; the person attempted to seize his arm, and the Rider was bothered by the attempt. He batted the hand away, and continued. "Is your boat heading that way?" The Knight asked.

"It is, it is, my friend!" He grinned, confirming the assumption. "The best you will find in all the Seven Kingdoms!"

"I'm sure," Eragon replied, sarcastically. "How much does the 'best I will find' cost?"

"Only six Silver Stags! A bargain!" He offered.

"Two."

"Four!"

"Three."

"A deal! A good compromise!" The man grinned, and Eragon returned it half-heartedly. The man was overly exuberant, and Eragon suspected that it would get annoying soon enough. "Please board the Marianne!" He pointed towards the boat behind him, and Eragon nodded. "You are lucky; we leave in an hour; you just caught us in time!"

-()-()_()-()-

The journey across the narrow sea was uneventful, though Eragon was correct in his belief that the man would quickly get annoying; the man had not become any less enthusiastic throughout the trip, and Eragon was not thrilled about having to leave Arya and Sansa. He had grown attached to the girls over the years, and was worried about their fate without him; even if it made him seem arrogant, Eragon believed that he was the best protection that could be given to the girls. Hopefully the jewellery that he had given to them before they left would prove plenty on top of the soldiers accompanying them.

And now, Eragon was stood in a different port to the last time he travelled over the Narrow Sea. Annoying, but it was nothing particularly crippling to his self-assigned mission, and so Eragon headed to a map; stapled to a message-board. Apparently, he was in Volantis at the moment, and so he would have to cross the plains of Essos to head to Vas Dothrak instead of following the roads from Pessos. Eragon wondered, briefly, whether there would be any animals he had to watch for on the way, but his attention was pulled away from future plans, as he heard something unsettling. It was oddly common, over here, for people to speak and simply assume they would not have any eavesdroppers.

"_...Dead?"_ One of the women asked her friend. "_How did that happen_?"

"_A curse_." Her friend returned, in a conspiratorial tone. "_From one of the slaves the Khalasar captured. She was a witch._" She summarised the story; giving very few details, to Eragon's dismay as he only caught the last part of the conversation.

Eragon paused, as he was about to walk past the girls, at mention of the Khalasar. Unfortunately, the girls stopped talking, upon sight of the elegant-face man, and allowed the conversation to die in exchange for staring at him. Eragon frowned slightly with worry on his mind; there were many Dothraki hordes, so it was entirely possible that this had nothing to do with Daenarys but, after news of the death of her brother that had reached the mainland, he had a sinking feeling that this death affected him and his investigation. Even so, he had to look for the dragons and, if they were still alive, who would be better able to raise them than he who had spoken to thousands of their brethren through his lifetime? He said a silent prayer in hopes that the dragons would still be alive when he found them once again, and decided that he would do well to find out any details of the Khalasaar. With that in mind, he approached the girls that had been talking moments before and, now, were following the handsome man with hunger in their eyes.

"_Hello_," Eragon began, in passable Pentoshi. "_Who were you talking about just now?_" He asked the two.

"_Khal Drogo,_" One of them answered, with a smile. Upon seeing Eragon frown, she continued. "_Why do you ask_?"

"_I have a... vested interest in one of the knight's that had been travelling with him._" Eragon half-lied. "_Do you know what happened to the remnants of his Khalasar after Drogo died_?" The Rider asked.

"_They went East, I hear._" Her friend shrugged. "_But I am sure you can wait a while. Maybe get some rest? I have a bed you could use._" She offered the stranger, and stepped in, uncomfortably close to Eragon.

"_I thought that your brother was back for a visit,_" The first girl corrected. "_You have no room to house a guest. I, on the other hand, have a large, empty house since my parents have gone to visit Braavos._"

"_I was more thinking that he could sleep in _my_ room, actually._" She turned to her friend, with eyes narrowed into a glare. "_I am sure that I could help relieve the _tensions_ of travel._" To emphasise her less-than-subtle point, the girl pulled on the the loose neckline of her baggy shirt; flashing Eragon with a look at her breasts, and winking at the man.

"_You whore,_" The other hissed. "_Like he would want to do _anything_ with a slut like you!_"

"_Pfft,_" The girl snorted, turning to her friend. "_Like you weren't going to do the same._"

"I _was going to _seduce_ him and start a relationship. I wasn't just going to mount him in a house with my family inside; not caring whether they heard us!_"

"_Like a guy like him would ever go for a girl like _you_!_" Was the scathing return.

"_Fuck you!_"

"_I intend to have him do just that!_" She smirked. "_You can watch, and learn, if you _want_._" The evidently promiscuous girl offered.

As their argument continued, neither of the girls noticed Eragon backing slowly away; focused as they were on insulting the other, and the Rider made his escape. He did not want to sleep with either of the girls, given his differing morality regarding sex to that of this world's citizens.

-()-()-()-()-

Eragon was, at noon the next day, hidden in a tree, and somewhat ashamed of himself for needing to do so. It was irrational, since anyone and everyone would do the same in his situation, but Eragon was annoyed that he had been so dumb as to encounter _this_. He stood little to no chance of survival, if he did not exercise caution for now, lest he... well, he would most likely die.

Even with his magic, Eragon did not like his odds against this Dothraki horde. Perhaps he would be able to scare them off using his unique gifts, but there was no way to know for sure. He was unarmoured, and his limited wards would not hold off the arrows of the Dothraki for long and, without armour, the first one through his defences could potentially kill him. And, so, Eragon was hidden as he waited for the savage men to pass; his magic hiding him entirely from the sharp eyes of those that would hunt him.

The Horde was excited for something that was coming in the near future, but Eragon understood little of the guttural language; never having favoured the company of the savages simply because he detested the practise of slavery. It was the same reason as he had avoided Slaver's bay after the first time he, curious, had visited the area.

Because of their anticipation, the Dothraki did not linger around Eragon's hiding place, and so the Rider waited them out; his patience not being tried or tested whatsoever. That was fortunate, Eragon remarked, as he dropped out of the tree and landed with a soft _thud_ on the dirt below. What was less fortunate, was the sun beating down on him as he knelt to the floor and began to dig a relatively deep, wide hole; roughly the size of a sink's basin.

"_Reisa du adurna_." Eragon murmured, and water began to flow up into the recently-dug hole. The Rider cupped his hands, dipped them into the water, raised them to his mouth and drank deeply. He repeated it a few times, before letting the magic ebb away; the water, as a result, sank back into the dry earth below and the summoner stood, wiping his mouth.

Eragon raised his hand, shading his eyes from the sunlight, and looked east; attempting to judge _something_. Trying to see anything he could use to estimate the distance towards the next town. He had not slept the night before, and he could really use some rest. Otherwise, he'd be in trouble the next time there was no choice but to fight and, so, Eragon bounced on his heels, before taking off at a run; a fast, but maintainable pace even in his tired, slightly hungry state. If need be, he could maintain himself with the energy of his gems and the magic running through the world around him. He thought of this because it would be a bad idea ot stop for a nap in Vaas Dothrak, which would be the nearest significant residence to his current position.

As he ran, Eragon's Gedwey Ignasia itched.

-()()()-

This town would serve Eragon's purpose, he supposed, though it was a creepy thought to rest here. He was fairly certain that the Dothraki had been here before him, though it must have been a different horde than the one he had almost encountered, since there had been no evidence of a recent conquest in the mass of savages.

The town, though, had been hit very hard. Razed to the ground, other than a few on the outskirts that the Dothraki missed simply because they were distracted by the presence of sheep-people, as he believed they referred to the civilised residents of the Dothraki plains. And, so, the Rider approached one of the still-stading buildings and looked inside; bracing himself for the worst.

He did not find it, as there was not a single corpse inside the shack, and Eragon let out a sigh of relief at his luck; looking at the pile of skins that would have to serve as a bed. Raising his hand, he uttered the words necessary to clean them, and went about setting traps on the off chance that someone approached his temporary residence; nothing that would hurt them badly, just stun and make a lot of noise.

In the morning, he would be thankful that his fortune held, and that nobody had found him while he was unconscious.

-()()()-()()()-

Eragon Shadeslayer grinned, as he finally found evidence of the Dragons, and their mother as Daenerys Targaryen had taken to calling herself. Although, to be fair, others wouldn't be inclined to call it evidence. It was unique to Eragon, in this world; the ability to listen to the world around him. The birds above him sang of the return of the scaled beasts; fearful, while the few horses that were roaming the area; either coming or going from the stream that ran past the cities of Lhazar and Meereen, thought of nothing other than the Dragons being their most feared predator in times of old, and the horror they held for the birth of these three.

Eragon's good luck as of late was worrying to the Rider; it was rare for him to go so long in times of war without something biting him in the ass. He was happy to find out that Daenerys was, most likely, nearing Qarth after being stranded in the wastes for a long while, of course, but he had the terrible feeling that this peace would not last.

-()-()-()-

_Reisa du adurna_\- Raise/Lift the water


	12. Entering The City of Qarth

**Okay, here's another chapter of The Stranger's Fire, and finally Eragon and Daenerys are going to meet! Not a nice first meeting, but it's to be expected based on the situation. Eragon also uses his magic more in this chapter than before, and you can expect this to be true in Essos as I think of Essos as ****_having_****magic, even if it's nothing compared to Eragon's magic, unlike Westeros.**

**Oh, and I've had a couple of people ask what the pairing will be. I'd kind of assumed that I was largely going to leave it without a pairing, since Eragon loved Arya (His Arya, I mean) so much. If I get a lot of support for having a pairing, though, I could easily be swayed to change my mind. So what do you think? Oh, and if you do make a suggestion, feel free to include who you'd like him to be with (bearing in mind that if Eragon is paired with someone it will be a female).**

**Translations of the magic used are, as always, in the endnote. Oh, and I own nothing.**

**I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

**-()()()-**

Eragon was sat, leant against a tree stump, on a crag overlooking the city of Qarth. The "greatest city that is, was or ever will be" certainly was an impressive sight. The walls were massive; tall and thicker than even those of King's Landing and had sentries on the top, wandering back and forth and looking for any incoming threats. He wondered why they had not come to investigate the just-dead fire; the embers of which still glowed red.

Perhaps they would not attack what seemed to be a single man in the campsite; dismissing the threat would be sensible in most cases, and Eragon had done nothing at all to imply he posed a danger greater than the average man. Nor did he intend to do anything to change this status in the future, either. That was not what he wished to achieve through coming here, though he could not say for sure what his goal _was_. Sure, he wanted to talk to the Mother of Dragons, but what did he wish to know of her?

The type of queen she would be? Did he want to support her? There was a chance that she would be the best for the realm as a whole, so it would be good to know as much about her as he could. Did she command the strength that she would need to take the Iron Throne? Would she be a good ruler, or just a conqueror? The realm did not need any more Roberts. How did she feel about magic, since Eragon may well be forced to use it in the future as he worked with her? And, most importantly, how did she feel about the Starks? Eragon would not allow her to hurt the people that he cared for; he cared more about them than anyone he had met in this world and, excluding Saphira, arguably more than anyone in his old world.

He supposed that his primary goal was quite simple; he missed dragons, and there were dragons, or something with the same name, in Qarth. Eragon would see the so-called dragons, and he would attempt to speak to them. After that, he didn't mind what happened all that much at the moment.

Brisingr rested against Eragon's knee, which was bent upwards, and pulled towards his torso, with the other leg crossed underneath it to provide some semblance of comfort, as he waited for daybreak. There was the possibility that there would be a group sent out to investigate him, and so the Rider-without-a-dragon remained conscious and cautious. Every half-hour, Eragon would perform the first and second levels of Rimgar to make sure he kept alert, and that the not-dreams would not begin dancing before his eyes.

Eragon resisted the temptation to stretch out his mind as he sat. It was reflex to do so, if only to check the immediate vicinity, but he was certain that there would be sorcerers in the City, and he did not know how sensitive they were to the mind-magic that he was so well versed in.

Unfortunately, that meant that when his ears caught a whisper of activity from the city from his distance away, he could not find out the source of the commotion the easy way. He would have to be patient, and find out in the morning. Eragon was fairly certain they would allow him entrance; if not, he would have to climb one of the walls. A daunting task, but cutting a chunk away would not work here, as it had in King's Landing, as the guards were far more devoted to watching the walls with the constant threat of Dothrak than the Goldcloaks tended to be.

-()()-

A single figure, the next day, sat in the middle of a stretch of dirt with a scowl on his face.

Eragon would _understand_ if they refused him entry. He would not be happy about it, but they had every right to deny him the chance to enter their city; he was a stranger and they had to think of their people's safety. He might defy their choice, but he would not hold it against the 13 that were rumoured to be in charge of such matters.

But _this_? This pissed him off.

Not one of them had sent word to him, let alone come to speak with him themselves, before closing the doors on the Rider. They had not sent an envoy. They had not sent a guard. No message _at all_, despite the fact that he was waiting patiently.

By this point, Eragon had grown tired of standing, and was sat cross-legged a hundred feet from the gate waiting for something to happen. Hell, at this point he would settle for a barrage of arrows being sent at him; at least it would tell him that they'd made a decision.

_Silence_ on the matter was just plain _rude_. Eragon was not used to dealing with rudeness, and so had decided to take matters into his own hands.

The Rider removed the sturdy leather glove from his hand as he walked towards the massive gate; he would be ready to repel arrows with magic if he was unable to dodge them, and his eyes flickered across the top of the wall every fifteen seconds. Being caught off guard was a bad idea, particularly if they had magicals suited to combat inside the massive walls. Eragon was confident he'd be stronger than them, but their methods of fighting may be different to anything he had dealt with before.

Nothing happened as he neared the imposing walls, and Eragon's anger was replaced by unease. Never had he not been warned against attempting to breach a gate in a situation like this. Of course, they did not know that he had the power to tear the gate off its hinges with a word, but surely they would err on the side of caution. Perhaps there was something happening inside? A rebellion of some sort.

The sun was at its peak as Eragon debated the matter, and finally settled on practising his own policy of caution. He had overpowered dragons before in mental battles, solely due to his expertise in the art; expertise that he could recall even now after millennia perfecting his ability, and it would be foolish to choose going against an unknown threat that almost certainly knew he was here, instead of reach out with his mind to prepare himself for what was to come and alert anyone adept in the mind magics of his presence. If he had to, he could shut them down in a moment before they could alert their fellows. They would be more focused on finding the invisible enemy in their midsts than finding Eragon.

He need not have worried.

The _sorcerers _of Qarth, evidently, were of a different stock to Eragon. They seemed to have some connection to each others' minds, but Eragon was subtle in his touching of their minds, and the one that was near him did not even notice his presence. As he examined its mind, careful to do so as no more than a whisper and preparing a mental-probe that would stab into the Warlock's mind and leave him catatonic with pain as a Plan B, Eragon began to wonder just what their magic entailed. It was not the same as his own mystic powers; it seemed to be pathetic in comparison as a matter of fact, but he sensed that it was also harder to define than his own.

Then, he realised _why_ it was harder to define. Somewhere in the man, there was a hint at the magic that his predecessors could wield, but it was just that. A hint. Their power _was_ great, though very strange, but even the leaders of the Warlocks could not wield anything more than a fraction of the power that Qarth's magicians of old could. Once upon a time, Eragon would not have viewed them as pathetic. Now, there was no better adjective for them.

That was a shame, and Eragon began to move his focus away from the man, back into the state that Oromis had taught him back when Eragon was human, so that he could hear everything but focus on nothing; allowing him to scan the entire area, when something stood out in the thoughts of the Warlock.

'_The dragons' mother will go after her children._' The Warlock thought, and Eragon got an image of a tower situated in the centre of Qarth. The House of the Undying.

They had taken the _dragons_. Eragon's anger cut the Warlock's life short, as a word was hissed in his mind. The Warlock crumbled as Eragon looked at the gate in front of him. Subtlety was not an option.

If they hurt the dragons, Eragon would erase the order of the Warlocks.

He would raze them and their tower to the ground.

Eragon's eyes turned to where the hinges would sit behind the stone, and his palm glowed blue as he spoke in the ancient language.

"_Jierda. Mor'amr._" With a _crack_, the hinges shattered, and then began to inch towards Eragon. He blinked away the slight fatigue, and cut off the flow once their was a gap large enough for him to squeeze through.

Then, Brisingr was in his hand and Eragon entered the g_reatest city that ever was or will be_ for the first time. He had not bothered to visit it earlier in his life because it was inconveniently located. In another situation, he may well have been impressed. It was far more pleasant than the Westerosi Capitol, but this was a situation in which he paid little attention to the aesthetics of the situation, and searched for a glimpse of the tower he needed to find. Eragon barely had the presence of mind, in fact, to note that there was a market stall almost immediately inside the gate, and that he may need a disguise on the off chance that there was somebody from Westeros this far out that either recognised him or could give a description to someone who would. It would not do for them to learn of his magic just yet.

"_Snida_." Eragon hissed, and a piece of the dark red cloth was cut from the stall. He caught it, and draped it over his head. "_Gath_." He murmured, and several threads from the tunic he wore intertwined with those of the new fabric, and they became a single, if mismatched, item of clothing. His face was cast into shadow by the noonday sun, and so Eragon's identity was safely hidden and he was able to go about his business without anyone recognising him.

Not that there was anyone around to see his face. The street was empty for some reason, and Eragon frowned under his cowl. Maybe this had to do with the only other significant piece of information that he had gleaned from the Warlock's mind; of the killing of the thirteen. That seemed as though it would scare the regular citizens of Qarth quite seriously. It would scare him if the stability of his way of life was threatened by a coup in the government that resulted in a bunch of creepy _sorcerers_ being in control of his life.

Well, that was convenient for Eragon, and so he scaled the building on his left; it was easy for the Rider to find footholds. When he reached the top, Eragon had a far better vantage point, and found what he was looking for. The tower of the Undead stuck out like a sore thumb, and the magic-user began bounding from rooftop to rooftop; heading for the dragons kept within.

It did not take Eragon long to reach the courtyard that surrounded the tower, and he hopped down from the wall with ease, landing with a small grunt that was just enough to draw attention from the two people he had landed only a few metres from.

"Who's that?!" One demanded. The man, looking to be middle-aged, was dressed in a Westerosi suit of armour, and Eragon's brow arched at finding him here and, from the looks of things, concerned over the safety of Daenerys Targaryen. That would probably be an interesting story, but it was not one that he was willing to hear at the moment. He did not want to fight the man, but Daenerys' ,am did not seem to have the same reservations, as a single-handed blade sat in his grip and pointed threateningly at Eragon.

Next to him, a Dothraki man had his own blade drawn, and gazed suspiciously at the intruder.

"Nobody of note." Eragon replied, and darted forwards. He could feel the odd magic that lingered on one spot of the tower's base, and assumed that there was something special about the area it was centred around.

He did not expect the world to suddenly go dark, as he collided with a stone wall, barely bringing his hands up in time to avoid having his face bounce off the stone. Eragon shook his head, to clear it of the cobwebs from being teleported into the inside of this tower. That should not have been possible without a massive exertion of energy, as Eragon understood it, but he was in a rush and, therefore, filed it away for future thought.

Eragon reached up and flicked the hood off his head; it interrupted his peripheral vision, and that was a mistake in this place. Even if he was about to increase the light, his depth perception would be off thanks to the long shadows that would be caused.

"_Brisingr_." He whispered, as his Gedwey Ignasia glowed. A ball of fire appeared, and hovered above Eragon's palm. With a thought, he moved it to his left hand, and it lingered a few inches above the palm, to allow him to move it as necessary. With his right hand, Eragon pulled Brisingr, the sword, from its sheath and the familiar weight reduced his unease as he reached out with his mind and found the location of the dragons. That was only so helpful, since there may well be a labyrinth of corridors behind his current position and that of the lizards. Hm, and their mother was there as well. How had he missed that? Was the magic that lingered in the tower playing with his senses?

Eragon dismissed the small amount of trepidation that came with that thought, and began to make his way towards Daenerys and her _children_. He was moving for a good few minutes before he heard the _shriek_ that came from one of the dragons, and his teeth ground together in frustration. It sounded close, but Eragon had no idea how long it would take for him to reach the foursome.

He forced himself to avoid breaking through the walls between here and there. It was entirely possible that they had some kind of wards on them. The Warlocks were crafty, and Eragon was weary of anything they concocted. What if they somehow, in the past, had created a way to drain him? He also could not use Brisingr; it would take a good while to cut through even one of the walls, and there were several between him and his destination by the sounds of things.

Eragon made his way through the corridor, and may well have missed the man that was stood in shadows, had he not moved slightly and caused the shadows his fire cast to _dance_ across the wall.

Eragon twisted, and in a moment Brisingr was pressed against the pale skin of the Warlock's neck. The man's blue lipped mouth fell open in surprise.

"_Where are the dragons_?" Eragon hissed at the Warlock, as he attempted to edge away from the enraged Rider. All he managed to do was open a small cut thanks to the wicked-sharp edge of Brisingr. Erago raised the fire, seemingly sitting in his palm, to rest in front of the man's face. It was hot enough for the skin to begin to crack. "Answer me, or I will show you what a true sorcerer can do." He disliked that term, but it would make his meaning as clear as possible.

"I-I am not afraid of death. I will not tell you anything. _Valar Morghulis_." He whispered, with a defiant edge to his gaze. Eragon pulled his hand away, and plastered a smile across his face.

"You seem to believe you have a choice." His mind-probe formed a spike, and Eragon drove it through the Warlock's meagre natural defenses. He dismissed the information he was assaulted with, and sifted through the man's recent knowledge. He soon found the path to the dragons from his current location and pulled away from the man's mind with a look of slight disgust. The man was unpleasant, and Eragon did not enjoy immersing himself in it to find the necessary facts. He raised the sapphire blade over the man, who had fallen to his knees. "_Valar Dohaeris_." The blade fell, and Eragon moved on.

He weaved his way through the first turn on his right, squeezing through a narrow passage, and then strode through the next passageway with Brisingr raised as he heard muffled voices coming from the dragons' cell. That suggested that at least one of the Warlocks was in there with them and, by the feel, they were further from ordinary than the other two that Eragon had met today. He wondered if that meant they still had their magic. The fire in his palm died, and he moved forwards.

Eragon stepped into the room seconds later, as he found a door, and found a strange sight to greet him. A blonde girl, the shade close enough to silver to tell him the was the Targaryen Queen, was stood with her arms stretched to ether side; connected by chains to the walls. Behind her, on a table, dragons were staring past their mother. Staring at the man that was talking.

"Welcome hone, Daenerys Stormborn." The Warlock said, as Eragon noted that he, unlike his fellows, was _entirely_ blue. Did not have the pale skin of the others. Was he older? Had he had longer for the corruption to spread thanks to their strange drink?

"This is not my home," The girl replied. Defiant, despite the fact that she was helpless. Not intelligent, but admirable. "My home is across the narrow sea! Where my people are _waiting for me_."

"I am afraid they will be waiting for you for a long time." The Warlock gave a fake, sad smile. Eragon wondered why they had not noticed him yet, but the pair seemed to be focusing their attention on the other party, so he took advantage of it and sunk into the shadows. It did not seem that he wanted to hurt the girl or her dragons, so Eragon would not rush to kill him. As he walked around the edge of the room, his feet silent, Eragon frowned; the pair had gone quiet and were just having a battle of wills. He expected the man to talk more; that was his experience when it came to people with complexes such as his.

Daenerys turned to look at her dragons, and Eragon wondered whether that expression was one of concern. It did not seem as simple as that... Then, he saw that her captor had followed her line of sight, and that he abruptly began to back away. That was the opportune moment, and Eragon took advantage of it.

Daenerys Targaryen opened her mouth to speak, as she decided on the fate of the man who dared steal her chidren; to give the command to her dragons to burn their captor, and stopped. Stopped as the Warlock froze, and his head dropped. He stared at his stomach, and Daenerys blinked.

No he didn't stare at his stomach. He stared at a sapphire blade protruding from his gut. Her eyes shot to the space over his left shoulder, trying to make out more than an outline of a face, and then she was blinded. The blade burst into flames, as blue as the weapon itself, and Daenerys flinched away. Not due to fear, she could not be hurt by fire after all, but due to the shocking intensity with which it burned as the Warlock turned his face, full of fear, to look at the girl and her dragons once again.

"What..." He whispered, voice full of confusion. That was the last thing he said, as the blade was pulled free and the man fell to his knees; his breath ragged. A beautiful knife, even in her eyes, was placed under his chin and dawn across the flesh. The Warlock garbled once, and clutched at his throat desperately; tried to stop the waterfall of crimson.

"_Jierda_." The chains fell of her wrists, and Daenerys heard her dragons growl. "Are you okay?"

"Are you okay?" Eragon asked of the girl between him and her dragons. She looked at him, at the bloody knife and sword in his hands, and decided on an unwise course of action.

"_Dracarys_." She told her dragons, asking in High Valyrian for Dragonfire, and the lizards hastened to obey. They opened their maws, and sprayed fire at the man that had intervened. Eragon grunted his annoyance as they did, and said his own word of power.

"_Brisingr_." The spurts of fire curved away from him, and scalded the wall to his right. "_Blothr_." The dragons, a few seconds later, ceased. They looked as conflicted as was possible for lizards, and Daenerys was staring at him with confusion. Eragon smiled at her, holding no grudge for the attack, and spoke.

"I am a true magic-user, Daenerys Stormborn, unlike these Warlocks. If I meant you harm, I could kill you with a word. Believe me when I say that I only came here for the sake of verifying you children's existence." She did not appear to believe him entirely. "I did just save you. Or... I thought I did, I didn't realise your dragons could breath fire just yet." Eragon said.

"And why did you want to see my dragons?" She stepped in front of them protectively.

"It has been a long time since I've last laid eyes on them. I missed the sight of dragons, and yours are the only ones available." Eragon wondered how to go about this. He had heavily suggested that he's seen dragons before, but the fact that he would be able to communicate with them better even than their _mother_ would hint at that anyway. "I suppose it was curiosity." He suggested.

"I do not trust you." Daenerys stated, not bothering to beat around the bush.

"I imagine not. They Warlocks are the closest things to me that you've dealt with, after all, and they didn't exactly give a good impression." Eragon nodded. "But I promise you that I care only for your... children's happiness." The girl did not change her view entirely at that remark, but Eragon sensed her decision to give him a chance. He had an idea that she had been hardened recently, but her attitude did not change the fact that she had virtually no allies anymore, and so was desperate for the help, almost taking the decision out of her hands. If Eragon had wanted to kill her, as an assassin most likely, he would not have saved her life as he did, and so her opinion had to change somewhat. Maybe having a true sorcerer in her army would prove a great help, assuming that he would fight with her.

"And how do you feel about me?" She asked him. She wanted to know whether he supported her claim to the throne, then, Eragon realised.

"The only fact I see as relevant at the moment is that they," He nodded at the dragons. "Would be caused pain where something... _anything,_ happen to you. I am sure that I'll form an opinion later, but I don't know you." He shrugged.

"Oh," The girl nodded, finding the answer acceptable. "Come. We need to leave this accursed tower."

"That we do. I expect that they will know that that one is dead, after all, and that the Warlocks will be coming after us soon. I'd suggest getting out of Qarth promptly, as well." Eragon added, almost as an afterthought.

"Soon." Daenerys' temperament changed in a moment, and Eragon glanced down at the girl with surprise as they made their way into the corridors again. "First, I have to have a conversation with Xaro Xhoan Daxos."

Eragon did not know the man, but he almost felt pity for him at the anger in the last Targaryen's voice.

-()()()-

_Jierda_\- Break

_Mor'amr_\- Open

_Snida_\- Cut

_Gath_\- Unite

_Brisingr_\- Fire

_Blothr_\- Stop


	13. Breaking Arms and Sailing

**Here's another chapter. I'm very sorry about the delay, I've had some problems adapting to an entirely new schedule of when I can write because of real-life stuff but, hopefully, that will not be as much of an issue from now on.**

**Other than that, I don't have much to say here. I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and would ask that you let me know. (Oh, and if you have a question, or a comment that needs to be addressed, I'd **_**really**_ **appreciate it if you have an account. I can't respond through PMs otherwise, and that's rather frustrating)**

Eragon idly wondered if the green and bronze dragon could somehow sense his dragon-esque nature, as it sat calmly on his shoulder, keeping an eye on its 'mother' as Eragon stood behind her, to the left and watched the diminutive blonde loom over two sleeping figures, one of whom would dwarf her had he been awake and stood but, in this situation, looked as unthreatening as a newborn babe.

It was safe to say that Xaro Xhoan Daxos would be dead once Daenerys was done with him. Not that Eragon could blame the claimant queen for this reaction. The man had betrayed her, and endangered her dragons. That was enough to anger him, though only on the principle of caring about the draconic race, and she thought of them as her _children_. Eragon couldn't exactly relate, but knew he would do anything for someone, or thing, that he cared for on the level of family. Casting his mind back, he could remember a handful of times that Roran's family was threatened by the remnants of Galbatorix's forces to get back at Eragon. He had killed a small army's worth by the end of the Black Hands order, around the time that Roran's grandson perished and the remnants of Eragon's family married into other names and he lost track.

One of the Dothraki with Daenerys hooked his curved blade through the black man's necklace, and yanked it off, waking Xaro with a start so that the bed shook more than a little thanks to his considerable bulk.

"Khaleesi…" The girl next to Xaro said, and Eragon's sharp eyebrow rose. He had not realised, until now, that the girl knew Daenerys. He glanced at the blonde girl, and found her face to be stony, but the anger virtually radiating off her for one, such as he, who had a form of telepathy. He caught a stray thought, unintentionally, of _betrayal_, and his suspicions were confirmed. "Please… He said you would never leave Qarth alive… I didn't-"

"Come." Daenerys commanded, her voice cold. Without waiting to see that her order was followed, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room with the two dragons that she held.

With a grunt of anger, Xaro threw the quilt off himself, and made to stand faster than those watching liked. Jorah Mormont drew his sword, and had the tip pointed at Xaro's chest, a heartbeat later. The dragon growled in Eragon's ear, at the same time, and Eragon's palm flashed blue. His magic flared, and Xaro was tossed back into the stone wall behind him with all the effort that he showed in throwing the covers away and he slumped to the floor, dazed. It also made sense that the vast majority connected the spell to the new member of their group; none of they had displayed such abilities in the past, after all.

Eragon realised his mistake upon the Dothraki men nearby backing away a step each, with odd looks, bordering on fearful, on their faces. They believed _Magi_ to be unnatural and evil, and so it would be difficult for them to accept his presence without a greater incentive. Eragon thought for a moment, and a possible solution occurred to him. One of the reasons they disliked the mystics was that they typically only dabbled in those arts; many were stupidly weak at least in terms of physical ability. Showing that this was not the case would be the best he could do for now, and so Eragon stepped over to Xaro and took a hold of his elbow.

Eragon felt no hesitation, after all Xaro was nearly responsible for the death of the dragons, in breaking the joint with a single, sharp twist. That brought him back to the present, with a yell, and Eragon, with a slight grunt of exertion, yanked Xaro to his feet and shoved him after the girl he had wronged. Xaro stumbled forwards, nearly falling onto his face, and tried to regain his bearing with some measure of dignity with his eyes welling up from the extremely painful breaking of his arm and the Dothraki glaring at him or, in the case of two whose names Eragon did not know, snickering.

Eragon glanced at the girl clutching the fabric to her chest in an attempt to reduce her shame, as though the people inside the room only _suspected_ her of fucking the man, and she quickly stood. The Rider had not made a threat against her, he held no ill will towards her, after all, but the idea of the same magic being used one her would be vastly more serious. She would die from such an impact, and as far as Doreah knew Eragon had no reason to attack her lover, either, so why would he not attack her? She betrayed the Khaleesi far more than Xaro, after all, and in her mind Eragon would only be motivated if he was lusting after Daenerys, as so many men did.

Eragon followed the two as they were poked and prodded by Jorah Mormont and the Dothraki after Daenerys, ready to cast again had Xaro given the impression of disobeying Daenerys' simple order.

The Rider, in retrospect, would be unable to say whether it was smart for the 'King of Qarth' to do as he was told. Had Eragon been forced to kill him, it would have been a far more preferable than the fate Daenerys condemned him to.

They made the journey through the halls of Xaro's residence quickly, unimpeded by any guards, who had been neutralised already, evidently, or by Xaro or Doreah acting against them. The most probable reason for this, other than fear, was given to Eragon as they neared what Xaro thought of as _The Vault_, his thoughts easily being read by Eragon, the admirable fortitude of his mind having fallen away thanks to the pain of being thrown into a wall and then having the joint of his elbow broken beyond repair. Eragon saw that Xaro Xhoan Daxos had an exaggerated perception of his own charisma, and that he thought he could influence the girl-queen even now.

That thought was overshadowed, though, by Doreah's fear as the girl realised what may be the intention of her previously queen. The whore was deceptively smart, and understood that Daenerys had to be strong, and show what was to happen in the case of traitors. Well, traitors and those that made attempts on the lives of her children.

Eragon watched as Daenerys placed Xaros' odd, circular medallion into the keyhole of the vault, and twisted it 90 degrees in a clockwise direction. The door swung open, and revealed…

"Nothing." Daenerys murmured, as she saw that the treasures that Xaros so boasted of did not exist, and that there was naught but empty space in the vault. She turned to face the dark-skinned man with a calm mask on her face. "Thank you, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, for teaching me this lesson." Without further ado, she nodded to the two men behind the prisoners, and they were shoved forwards, stumbling in unison, and directed into their tomb.

Daenerys watched, coldly, as the two begged and pleaded for mercy, and Eragon was shown another side of the claimant queen. One that increased the feasibility, in his mind, of her running a kingdom.

-()()-

The day after, as the Dothraki continued to strip the house of their dying host, Daenerys was sat in the now-plain room that Xaro likely used to meet with esteemed visitors. She was using it for much the same purpose, as she sat across from the striking, feline man to whom she seemingly owed her rescue, though she had faith that between herself and her dragons it would have been a simple matter to escape safely.

Daenerys found herself trusting him, and the reason for that would be clear to anyone who happened by the scene. Her children had never before reacted so positively to a person as they did with Eragon. Rhaegal, especially, seemed to have taken to the man, as the dragon climbed onto an offered arm and up to sit on Eragon's shoulder.

"Why is it that my dragons have grown fond of you so quickly?" Daenerys asked, with a hint of suspicion and more than a hint of confusion.

"I told you that I am a magic-user, didn't I?" Eragon asked, and this fact was confirmed by a nod of the blonde girl's head. "What I did not mention was how I came across this ability. You see, I am not of this world. In actuality, I come from a land named Alagaesia, where I lived with my uncle, Garrow, and cousin, Roran. I had a happy, if hard, childhood helping on my family's farm, but that all changed one day when two creatures, the Ra'Zac, came to visit…"

Daenerys Targaryen listened, rapt, attentive and, by the end of the tale wide-eyed, as Eragon described the first part of his adventure, in which he met Saphira and left with Brom, who was unknowingly his father, to head to the Varden and begin to seek his revenge against the creatures that killed his uncle and destroyed his home. He told her of meeting Arya, the beautiful elf that had been poisoned by the Shade Durza, and Murtagh.

But, as Daenerys leaned forwards, and Eragon reclined, scratching Rhaegal's brow, getting to the point at which he and Murtagh were taken into the Varden's stronghold by the dwarf Orik, they were interrupted by a slow knock on the door. Quickly composing herself, as Eragon's eyes focused on her again, having been staring into the distance as he recounted his very first adventure, and a small smile spread across his face at the attentive, almost childlike expression of wonder on Daenerys' face. She had heard tales from her brother and Jorah, before, but this was… different. There was no doubt in her mind that Eragon was retelling the events exactly as they happened and, more importantly, that it was a first person retelling; that this had happened to the man in front of her, and that she was given an entirely unique potential advisor in the form of this _Dragon Rider_.

"Come in." She said, clearly, to the person outside the room's door. Ser Jorah entered, and she did not notice the flash of _something_ across the older man's face as his eyes moved from Daenerys to his fellow 'knight'. Eragon did, having turned to see who was here, but put it out of his mind.

"My Queen," He began, dipping his head to accompany the address. "We are ready to leave at your earliest convenience."

"We…" Daenerys began to repeat, only to fail to get the words out. "How long have we been in here?" She asked of Eragon.

"Four, five hours?" He guessed, not having kept complete track himself. "Apologies, it is quite the tale." He smiled slightly sheepishly, having wasted a good while. It felt… refreshing to have the chance to be honest about his past. She was the _mother of dragons_, and it would not feel right to lie to her and, more importantly, she had already seen him use magic. What would be the point in hiding anything now? And, if possible, he would begin proper communication with the dragons soon; he had, at one time, been an expert in communing with the wild dragons that were Saphira's relatives. Unfortunately, that had been centuries ago; he would need to shake off the cobwebs over the next few weeks and honesty would only make Daenerys more willing to allow him to be near her 'children'.

"Oh." Daenerys hid her surprise at so much time passing, and turned back to Jorah. "And a ship has been prepared? That was faster than I expected." She commented.

"Yes, it seems the people of Qarth are eager to be rid of us. They are extremely accommodating and the ship and supplies we have purchased were very reasonable. Unfortunately, the gold was not of a high quality," He said, meaning the gold that they stole from Xaro's homestead. "It was largely gold-plated other metals, and the jewels were not of a particularly high worth, either. After everything that we purchased, almost all of your wealth has been depleted, my Queen."

That was something, Eragon realised, he could help with. As of yet, he had been travelling far too much to retrieve any of his caches, ones he had not thought of for many years, but over the centuries he had gathered a lot of gold, weapons and, more importantly, jewels and had them all over this continent. It would be simple enough to grab the nearest one once they reached whatever destination it was that they were headed. Come to think of it, that was something he should find out sooner rather than later, but he was not given the chance before Daenerys replied.

"I'm not surprised," She said, shaking her head. "It's a shame that there was no treasure in the vault, but we have to move on. There is nothing to gain from staying in Qarth; it is long since time for me to find an army." She said, before a frown marred her beauty. "Though I am still disgusted by the notion of a _slave_ army."

Eragon blinked, and quickly registered that they were speaking of the Unsullied. That meant, of course, that they were going to head to Astapor and, so, Eragon spoke.

"We are going to Slaver's Bay?" He asked, his tone doing nothing to hide the displeasure he felt at the notion.

"We cannot take the Iron Throne without an army." Jorah replied, unhappy at the borderline complaint. "I assumed that you supported Daenerys' claim to the throne." He said, in an accusatory tone of voice. Daenerys' eyes snapped to Eragon, wanting to know his allegiance also.

"That's not why I am here," Eragon responded, honestly. Jorah's eyes narrowed, while Daenerys waited for an elaboration. "I came for the sake of the dragons, for reasons that I do not feel compelled to share with you, Ser Knight, but that Daenerys already has been made aware. Other than that, I was told to do so by the Lord whose Household I served, by choice to let you know as the Lord was the most honourable man I have seen in a very long time," Eragon's gaze moved back to the blonde queen, before continuing. "Eddard Stark disagreed with Robert Baratheon's decision to attempt to take your life, and trusted me to stop the attempts. Of course, that was several months ago, but I had to return upon hearing the news that he was accused of being a traitor to the crown. Unfortunately, I was too late, and Joffrey had him killed; because of this, I had to escort Ned's daughters to the North, where they were reunited with their mother, and are now safe and protected in Winterfell; escorted by a substantial force.

"After that, I made my way to Essos, eventually finding out that you were here, and that your dragons were in danger. You know what happened after that."

Daenerys' reaction, through the explanation, was as was to be expected. She was very unhappy to hear that Eragon served a man who had overthrown her father, but Ned Stark was a lesser evil. She knew that Aerys Targaryen had been insane, and as dangerous as any other because of this combined with the power he wielded as king. The Usurper, she hated, because it had been on his order that her nephews and nieces had been slaughtered, not to mention that he had killed Rhaegar, but Eddard Stark _was_, at his very core, an honourable man. Even Jorah knew that his reason for giving the knight such a severe sentence as he did had been just; slavery was an abhorrent practice, after all.

One that she was about to participate in, and that was a thought that angered her, even as Jorah himself frowned rather visibly, unhappy to be an ally with the man who served someone he hated so much; Ned Stark had ruined his life, after all.

"How can you expect us to trust you, if you are loyal to the Starks?" Jorah voiced a concern.

"I consider them my friends, you mean," Eragon corrected. "The Starks have always been kind to me, and so I would stop any attempt to hurt them if it was in my power, but that's irrelevant. You aren't aiming to kill them, are you? Daenerys wishes to overthrow the Baratheons, so does Robb Stark; he has no wish to sit on the Iron Throne, though, only to have the North. I do not see the two goals as incompatible."

"If they are," Daenerys stopped Jorah from responding with a gesture. "That should be dealt with in the future. In the meantime, I hope that we can be allies." She said to Eragon, with a smile.

"So do I." Eragon said, with sincerity.

"But, now, we need to leave Qarth behind. I hoped this trip would be far more productive than it has been; we are in far better shape than before but strides have yet to be made." She stood, and made to exit the room, asking Eragon to return with a look that amused him simply because it was impressively _regal_ and that he therefore had no trouble following. "Now, Eragon, I would appreciate any information you could give me about the usurpers child and his family."

"The bastard that currently sits on the Iron throne is Joffrey," Eragon used the term bastard both literally and to describe his thoughts on the blonde ponce of a king. "And he is rotten to the core. The best example I can give is a report I heard of him, upon hearing the rumours of his mother's incest, ordering all boys, black of hair, be killed by the City Watch…"

As they made their way to the docks of Qarth, Daenerys found her feelings on this information extremely mixed. Obviously, she hated the fact that he was such a disgusting little monster, who would kill many of those she considered to be her subjects, but having such a vile king would no doubt mean people craved someone kinder.

But then… _was_ she kinder? Or was she cruel? Did she have the insanity that was so often present in her family because of the tradition of inbreeding that was prevalent in her ancestors? That was a fear that would be present in her for a long time to come.

-()()-

Eragon smiled peacefully, from his perch in the crow's nest of the ship he was sailing on with the small Khalasar, as the wind blew through his damp hair. The Dothraki's reactions to him deciding to go for a midday swim had been very amusing; it baffled them that someone would willingly enter the _poison water_ and, seemingly, made them see him in an even stranger way than previous. That he was a magician separated him quite blatantly from them, but they could not condemn him for it because his prowess as a warrior was clear as day to them even based solely on the way he carried himself. He did not share their culture, voluntarily having short hair, yet in this way he managed to overcome many of their limitations; while they thought it insane, they could not help but respect a human that could leap into the deep waters without fear, something they had only seen from dragons otherwise.

Eragon also had to admit that he found the far-from-covert looks of Daenerys, when he stripped down to his underwear to swim and especially afterwards when his toned form was highlighted by the water that clung to him, a mix of amusing and flattering. An odd reaction, considering how much interest he typically gained in this world, but it seemed different coming from the likely future-queen who had seemed, until then and excluding when her _children_ were in danger, to be eternally composed and was not as… promiscuous as the typical commenter.

For now, Eragon was content to just _be_ for a while. It seemed like quite some time since he was last able to sit peacefully without some pressing concern on his mind, and he was happy to get a break; hopefully there would not be a massive amount for him to do in Astapor. If there was… well, his self control would be tested to the limits if he had to engage in pleasantries with the slavers. From what he had seen, though, Daenerys felt much the same on the subject as he; a plan seemed to be taking shape in her mind. One that she was keeping close to her chest, though, as it increased the odds of success if others reacted naturally.

The Rider whose Dragon was absent watched, then, as Jorah made a comment about the Dothraki, one of whom having lost his lunch at a rough patch of sea, and then as Daenerys defended the man and his fellows, who so believed in her. When she looked up at Eragon, upon hearing a comment from the knight at her side, he briefly considered descending to see what was what, but deduced it was not overly important as she did not make any motion to ask him to come down.

Instead, Eragon lowered his mind's barriers, and the world around him became so much more interesting. For the hours until they reached the Slaver's city, the Shadeslayer conversed, in the crude manner, with the three dragons for whom he had made enemies of the order of warlocks. They responded, as always, with enthusiasm. It was an amazing thing, to them, to be able to speak to the dragon-on-two-legs through thought and they wished that they could do the same with their _mother_; at the moment, though, it was beyond any of the three to express this desire to Eragon and so he could do nought to create any kind of connection between mother and dragon.

As he was connected to the serpentine, magical beasts, Eragon was made aware of their approach to the city before any of the others, and stood to try and spot the walled-city.

Daenerys noticed this action, and called up to her newest advisor, who had been occupying her thoughts for the duration of the trip. "Do you see something?!" She asked. Eragon, deciding it would be best not to yell down in response, vaulted the small wooden wall of the crows nest and caught a hold of the lip as he fell, transferring to the ladder leading up the mast to his perch and lowering himself swiftly to the floor.

"Yes, I can see Astapor in the distance." He said, turning to face the girl.

"How far?" She simply asked in response.

"Likely a few hours, still, but it would be best to call in the dragons sooner rather than later. They're small, but people will still be fearful and it could send the wrong message to our… hosts." He replied, keeping his tone diplomatic, as he knew he would have to from now on. As much as he detested slavers, this was the time for him to ignore his feelings in exchange for the political mask he had had to don so many times in his life. This, too, he hated.

"Okay," Dany nodded, before continuing. "Would you be willing to be by my side when we are introduced? Your appearance is…" She searched for the right word. "Is… Princely? Noble? I believe that it will make me look as respectable as someone without money could, so…"

At this, Eragon paused. And, then, he smiled slightly and spoke. "Well, my Queen, if you would be willing to wait for an extra hour or two, something that I think should be fine as I do not understand them to be waiting for us, I could help with that."

Daenerys' eyes widened slightly at that, in surprise. "You can? How?" She asked.

"Well… I've been in this area in the past, though rarely as I find their practice abhorrent and last time I… uh, procured some items, by relieving people that did not deserve them of their worldly possessions, that would be more fitting for a queen. As well as quite a bit of other stuff. That was some time ago, so nobody will remember the event, but I've never cared to come back and get them; I have other stores of similar object around this continent and another, after all."

"I see…" Daenerys said, uncertainly. "We can do that, if you think it would be a good idea?" She half-asked.

Eragon nodded, responding in the positive, and began to map out the area again in his head, as he tried to figure out where he had placed the chests of goods, gold and weapons. It was lucky, in this case, that they were approaching from the sea.

When he located the spot, and dove down into the depths of the dark blue waters, Drogon and Viserion would follow him, curious to see what had inspired such odd behaviour.


	14. Astapor

**Wow. Long delay between updates. All I can say is that I'm sorry and hope it doesn't happen again. I haven't been writing as much recently, and upon getting my motivation back decided, somehow, that it would be a good idea to start yet another story. Long story short, having five fanfics on the go at once is a bad idea.**

**As a reminder, I own nothing.**

Daenerys Stormborn, the last member of House Targaryen, kept her face styled in an apathetic mask as she and her advisors neared the city of Astapor at a brisk stride. Her tread, in particular, would stand out to anybody who happened to observe the three as confident, and fitting for the role of a lady of a powerful family or, more aptly, a queen.

The girl wore a flowing purple gown, that stirred slightly in the seaside breeze of Astapor. The dipping V of the neckline showed off ample bosom, as Eragon had learned was expected in this world, and between her supple breasts there rested an Amethyst, encased in silver and with a slim chain of the same metal snaking up and around her neck. Her arms were left bare by the dress, and her silver hair spilled over the back. He was happy to say that the dress and jewel that they had settled on complimented her remarkable well. Her white-gold hair was similar to the silver of her necklace, and the purple highlighted her Targaryen-purple eyes and the majesty that had been bred into them.

Eragon, and Jorah who stood next to him behind the girl, had not gone as full-blown as the claimant queen. It would not have served any purpose to do so, after all. Instead, Eragon had provided a new helmet for the other knight, a new pair of leather gloves, an ornate dagger, and bronze greaves. Unfortunately, Eragon had not been thinking of armour around the time he stocked that particular hideout. He had, instead, been thinking about robbing the slavers blind. The only chest-plate that would have fit Jorah was far too recognisable, with the likeness of a panther on the front, and so may have been remembered by _somebody_ from the time that the Rider had stolen it.

Eragon himself had donned a leather tunic that would serve as light armour, matching gloves and some trousers that had not been torn apart by weeks of travel as well as leather boots. Along with these, he had a belt of small knives diagonally across his chest, for the purpose of throwing in the case that the need arose. Other than that, Brisingr and the dagger that he had now bequeathed _fuileadair_, or Bloodletter, were all he felt were necessary. There was virtually no chance of them being attacked, but if they were he was confident that he could fight off any enemy with the two.

What chance was there of the Unsullied spilling any blood, after all?

-()()-

Eragon's grip on Bloodletter's hilt tightened as he and Daenerys stood with a visage of patience on their faces. That they were being kept waiting was not what bothered him; it was the location in which they were waiting. From the trickle of emotions that he felt from Daenerys, the Queen-to-be felt much the same.

_The Plaza of Pride_ was far from the most disgusting part of Astapor, but it was a horrendous reminder of how _mundane_ slavery was in this part of the world. Of how little the _masters_ cared for the lives of the slaves.

With a single sweep of one's eyes, more than a dozen types of slaves could be seen. From bodyguards, to singers, to dancers. From wet nurses to those that would be inevitably tossed into the pit to fight each other or the wild beasts captured by the hunter-slaves and their masters who herded the herders. From children meant to be company for the lonely progeny of the masters to children meant for other things. Things that killed Eragon, to know that he had failed to raze this practise despite his best efforts over the years. From these disgustingly young whores, to the adult kind; men to bugger or be buggered, women to spread their legs or provide abuse to the masochist-Masters.

Of course, there were also the simpler slaves. The labourers, cooks, and cleaners that all masters required. To not have at least one of each was to have no status in this city, and that spoke volumes.

And then there were those behind Eragon's presence in the disgusting city. Or, more specifically, behind Daenerys' decision to come here; she needed an army after all.

The unsullied were… impressive. Even from Eragon's perspective, and he had met some incredibly talented warriors in his time. Even the elves, more physically able than any of the other humanoid species he had encountered, were not impressive in quite the same way. When the Elves fought, they attacked as individuals. They attacked as extremely formidable individuals, but as individuals nonetheless. Eragon had seen them flow over the walls of a city as smoothly as a wave, or swarm over like scavenging creatures, but they did not _sack_ cities as the Unsullied did.

Where the Elves would move as individuals, the unsullied moved as a singular being. Their shields interlocked, and their spears stabbed out as though striking snakes on the back of the creature he and the other Riders had encountered that one youth had dubbed a Chimera. A Lion-Goat hybrid that had a bushel of serpents in lieu of a tail. The strength of the Unsullied did not lie in their individual strength, or speed, or magic. It lay with the fact that they had been mercilessly drilled to fight as part of a unit. Only as part of a whole.

It was fortunate, then, that Daenerys would need them foreseeably for conflict on the open field, or the taking of cities. That was what war consisted of, as long as the other side was human.

Around the edge of the courtyard, the slave-soldiers outshone the few free men who chose that duty. It was no surprise. No free man would choose to have the rigorous training that the Unsullied had forced upon them, and their more expensive equipment could not make up for that. Nor was the slight advantage they had in being whole.

"Tell me of them." Daenerys instructed, her own gaze resting on the Unsullied without expression. Jorah responded first, and Eragon tuned out the information as he lowered his mental shield and touched the mind of one of the Eunuch-slaves.

Eragon had noticed on this world that discipline had a direct correlation with the strength of one's natural defense. Where the talented soldiers of Westeros required some focus to get a sense of their thoughts and those educated members of court more still, the common man would project them even more loudly than those in Alagaesia; it was one of the reasons Eragon kept his telepathy under check, though that there were none who knew mind magics other than he was far more significant.

It made sense, then, that this slave's mind seemed to have genuine _walls_ around it. Almost flawless, due to the incredible hardships that he had undergone in the guise of _training_. Eragon was actually impressed by the feel and took a moment to check the slave next to the first to ensure this was no fluke. He was not disappointed, finding the second mind as secure as the first, and wondered just how formidable their army would be. Then, how tough they must be on the outside for this much to translate to the in.

After these few seconds, Eragon entered the mind without difficulty. For it was _almost flawless_, and he was a master of the branch of magic. The cracks that would be impossible to spot for a novice were as clear to him as a light at dusk.

Green Roach, as he was called today, did not have thoughts as an ordinary man would. Eragon could hardly even interpret them, and was shocked at what he divined.

He had been stripped of his individuality to a horrifying degree. The man, and Eragon refused to call him anything different for the mutilation he had suffered, named after a colour and a vermin as was customary for his kind, hardly had an inner commentary. His thoughts, instead, were… subdued. Eragon would have called them dull, if not for the fact that he knew the soldier would, on a simple command, become as sharp as a scholar. In his own way.

Their entire purpose was war. War and serving those that called themselves masters.

How tempting it was to plant the thought in their minds that they did not _need_ to be like this. That they did not _need_ to serve them. That they could so easily take control of their own destiny.

Maybe he would, once they left. For now, that knowledge would endanger Daenerys and Eragon was determined to prevent such an action.

"Eragon?" He was brought to the present by a touch on his arm, and it was only that he could feel Daenerys' presence next to him that stilled Bloodletter.

The Rider looked at her with curiosity and a slight frown at having lost himself to his thoughts. He hated slavery, and that was concerning because Eragon doubted he could stand with Daenerys at the head of an army of Unsullied.

"We have been asked to proceed to the meeting place." She said, with some small concern in her eyes at the sight of her new advisor's lapse in concentration.

Eragon nodded, and they moved with Daenerys in the lead.

-()()-

"The Unsullied have stood here for a day and a night without water." The translator translated for her master Kraznys as the man twirled a finger in his red and black beard.

"_The things will stand until they drop, they are so obedient_." Kraznys continued, in Valyrian.

Melisandre repeated the statement, without the greasy pride, in the common tongue.

The three visitors to Astapor and their hosts neared the column of Unsullied that had been referenced, and their master flicked his hand containing the whip. The soldiers moved as one, and parted to provide a passage for the five.

"They may suit my needs," Daenerys acknowledged. "Tell me of their training."

"_The Westerosi woman is impressed but speaks no praise in order to lower the price._" Melisandre informed her master. "_She wishes to know how they are trained_."

"_Tell her what she wants to know and be quick about it. The day is hot, and I grow hungry_." Kraznys ordered.

"They begin their training at five. Everyday they drill from dawn to dusk until they have mastered the short sword, the shield and the three spears. Only one boy in five survives this rigorous training." Melisandre dutifully went about informing the Westerosi visitors as her master turned a lecherous gaze on Daenerys, and told the slave girl what to say.

"Their discipline and loyalty are absolute. They fear nothing."

"Even the bravest men fear death," Jorah said, as their was a lull in the speech.

"_The older knight says that even brave men fear death._" Melisandre translated for her master.

"_Tell the old man he smells of piss._" Kraznys responded, without missing a beat.

Melisandre hesitated to obey, and asked. "_Truly, Master?_"

"_No, not truly! Are you a girl or a goat to ask such a thing?!"_ He berated, and then continued. "_Tell the old man that the Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them._"

She did, and Eragon spoke at this point.

"That is an issue," He said to the overweight man. "Eunuchs are never as strong as whole men."

"_The regal knight says that men without their genitals are not as strong as they could be._"

"_He's prettier than you,_" Kraznys sneered. "_Tell the girl that they are better trained than he will ever be, and not to talk of matters of which he knows nothing_." Had Eragon been a younger man, he might have taken offence at this. Instead, he took solace in knowing that the disgusting, greasy slaver would be dead soon.

"My master assures you that they more than make up for this with their training and… and their discipline. He does, however, wonder what your role is here and expresses doubt that you provide protection to Lady Targaryen because you do not look to have seen much battle." Eragon made a note that the girl was rather intelligent. More so than he would have suspected even knowing that she was well versed in many tongues.

"Eragon serves as one of my advisors. He is an accomplished Ser in both matters of politics and warfare." Daenerys answered. Then, she continued. "I have heard tell of the discipline of the Unsullied, and I am sure that it is impressive, but they are still only soldiers. And as soldiers they are men. They have the same limitations as any man would."

After Melisandre repeated these sentiments, Kraznys sneered again. "_Tell this ignorant whore of a westerner to open her eyes and watch, then._" He said, and walked down the steps to stand in front of an Unsullied. He waved his hand and the man stepped forwards, removing his helmet as he did so to reveal a plain, heavy browed face.

Kraznys brought the whip up, and then down across the Unsullied's face. It cut a long, thin gash across his face and Eragon caught Daenerys' flinch at the sight and sound. The Unsullied, on the other hand, did not move or give any reaction to the sensation.

Kraznys barked another order at the Unsullied, and the man removed the portion of his light leather armour that covered the right pectoral. The master drew a knife and Daenerys regained her bearings enough to object.

"Tell the good master there is no need-" She spoke hurriedly.

"_She's worried about their nipples? Does the dumb bitch know we've cut off their balls?_"

"Master Kraznys points out that men don't need nipples."

With that, the bald-headed master's blade cut through flesh and removed, as promised, the Unsullied's nipple. A splatter of blood fell to the floor, and the slave did not react. Then, Kraznys waved him off and the slave redonned his helm.

"_This one is pleased to have served you_." He said, and stepped back into line.

Kraznys turned to Daenerys, and began to speak. Melisandre translated the words.

"To win his mark, an Unsullied must go to the market with a silver mark, find a newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes." Melisandre's voice shook minutely. "This way, my master says, we make sure there is no weakness let in them."

"You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it, and pay for her horror with a silver coin?" Daenerys' tone contained a significant amount of venom here, not that Eragon was surprised. He did not know this fact about the Unsullied.

"_She is offended_," Melisandre translated. "_She asks if you pay the silver coin to the mother_."

"_What a soft, mewling fool this one is…_" Kraznys smiled.

"My master would like you to know that the coin is paid to the baby's owner, not the mother."

-()()-

'_That could be one of the babies Kraznys and his ilk murder._' Eragon thought, keeping his face in a passive mask as the slave-woman cooed at her baby's gurgling laugh. He did not have to reach for her thoughts to know that she was enjoying one of the few pleasures in her life.

Even now, Eragon often forgot how despicable humans could be. He turned his eyes to the sky, and made a silent vow. '_When this is done, I will put an end to the Slave Trade. I will put the fear of their gods into them. If that does not work… it will be the first time I kill an entire class of person, but with the amount of blood on my hands a little more makes no difference._'

He looked to the ship on which Daenerys was meeting with the old knight who had saved her life, and sighed. Was he getting rusty? That his instincts hadn't picked up on the Warlocks' assassin was worrying. Of course they would make an attempt on her life; it was not good that he had neglected his duty as one of her protectors.

Or maybe he was just tired. Tired of war. Tired of watching people live and die, and then watching their children do the same. Tired, most of all, of loneliness. Half his soul was missing, and Eragon knew that the backing of this girl-queen was just a way to pass the time.

Had he been a lesser man, Eragon would have long-since grown tired of being the way he was in this world. Always on the outskirts. Even now, when he was throwing himself into the centre of an invasion, the Rider's name would not be known. Daenerys would remember him; she would regale her children with stories of the majestic knight who had helped her win the throne. But her children would doubt the validity of these stories as they grew older. Maybe they would also tell their young, but more likely not. And the memory of Eragon would fade once more until he found another situation to hold his interest.

Or, hopefully, he would be reunited with the partner of his heart by then. Whether or not they stayed in this world or moved back to Alagaesia, his life would be all the better for her being there.

Eragon frowned, and hoped that this time nothing had happened to Daenerys. Had he not felt the need to track the other members of Kraznys' council to their neighborhood, then Barristan Selmy would not have needed to intervene. And she wouldn't have nearly died. Eragon would have become miserable even after knowing the claimant queen for such a short time.

He let his mind expand, and examine the scene around him. Thoughts and feelings rushed to meet him, and his mind processed them quickly before dismissing each as unthreatening.

His consciousness extended to the point that he brushed against the dragons where they were staying on the boat, and found them agitated. Not surprising; all creatures valued freedom and none more than dragons. Next, he found the mind of Jorah Mormont. The man was content for the moment, and Eragon assumed that was a good thing; the suspicious man trusted Selmy with the life of the girl he loved, at least enough for now, so Eragon would give the old knight a chance too.

Eragon's mind turned to other matters, as his consciousness came back to himself in an instant. He was going to give the next meeting a miss, because he had seen the intention in Daenerys' mind, but he could spend his time productively anyway. Searching for the weakest point for best method of incursion, for example.

Eragon pushed off the wall on which he leant and walked into the city. He would walk the perimeter, and make a note of the weak spots he found that would not risk the lives of those enslaved.

-()()-

"Is it done then?" Daenerys asked of Kraznys, as she looked at the whip in her hand. "They belong to me?"

Even with his knowledge of what was next, Eragon was gripping Brisingr's hilt with enough strength that the tendons in his forearm were straining against the skin at the sounds Drogon was making as his mother handed him to the slaver.

Daenerys' words were translated by Missandei, and Kraznys responded with a simile on his face.

"_It is done. She holds the whip_. _The Bitch has her army_."

"It is done. You hold the whip, and so they will obey your orders." Missandei informed Daenerys.

"Dovageris!" Eragon noted that, at her use of a high valyrian word, Jorah's, Barristan's and Missandrei's heads all snapped around for them to stare shocked at the Queen-to-be. "_Forward march!_"

The unsullied marched forwards.

"_Halt_!"

The unsullied ceased their walk.

Eragon's eyes were locked on the struggling dragon, as it tried to escape Kraznys by pulling desperately at the chain on its feet.

"_Tell the bitch her beast won't come_!" Kraznys demanded of Daenerys' translator.

"_A Dragon is not a slave_." Daenerys responded, in the same tongue. Kraznys' eyes widened at the sound.

"_You speak Valyrian_?!" Kraznys said, shocked to his core.

"_I am Daenerys of the house Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria._" Her eyes narrowed, as she glared on at the slaver as one would look at a piece of dirt. "_Valyrian is my mother tongue_.

"_Unsullied!_" She turned, and looked at her army. "_Slay the masters! Slay the soldiers! Slay every man holding a whip!_" The slaves seemed unaffected by the order, and gave no reaction. "_But slay no child and strike the chains off every slave you see!_"

Two masters were unfortunate to have been walking amongst the Unsullied, checking that their formation was as perfect as it could be. They died first, speared from behind by two fast-acting unsullied.

"_Stop this!_" Kraznys' voice wavered. He knew they wouldn't obey. "_I AM YOUR MASTER_!"

"Dracarys." Daenerys instructed, with the Valyrian word for _Dragonfire_. Drogon opened his mouth and spewed fire at the slaver; Kraznys died screaming.

Eragon drew both his knife and sword as Daenerys turned to him.

"Go," She nodded, with steel in her eyes. They had discussed this earlier, and so Eragon knew exactly what she meant with the word.

He leapt into action, running forth in a beeline for three soldiers blocking his path. The free men hesitated slightly before raising their spears and stepping forwards to engage him and, in their minds, finish Eragon quickly. They should have noticed his speed, and taken a hint from that that he was no ordinary man.

Eragon pushed off the ground and into the air with his blades raised. One of his adversaries gasped, and Bloodletter _thunked_ into his throat as the noise died. The man stumbled back, and fell to the ground.

Eragon's foot lashed out at the man on his right, and his helmet dented with a _clunk_. He fell to his rear, suddenly groggy, as Eragon landed and the uninjured soldier stabbed at him with his spear, shield raised. Eragon twisted and the spearhead passed harmlessly by his ribs, not even grazing the armour under his loose tunic.

The Rider turned Brisingr in his hand, and swung. It passed through the man's helmet, and half of his head fell to the floor. Shortly, the rest of the man joined it while greymatter pooled on the floor.

Eragon spun, and grabbed the live soldier's wrist before his dagger could make contact. Brisingr raised and descended, and the arm was removed at the elbow. The man screamed, and Eragon stabbed the sapphire blade into the open crevice and out the back of his head. He kicked the man off Brisingr, and let him fall to the ground.

Stopping briefly to retrieve Bloodletter, Eragon ran for the gate.

"_Jierda_!" The gate was snapped in two, and Eragon smiled at the feel of his magic coming free for the first time in so long.

He headed for the centre of the city, where he would find the remaining members of the city's council and their private army.

He would deal with them quickly, and with his magic. That was where the cities free children would be, and they did not need to see their parents die at the hands of their once-protectors.

-()()-

_Jierda_\- Break


End file.
